Traitor
by Serialgal
Summary: Part three of the Marked series, but works as a standalone story. Don and Charlie face terrorists, torture, and truths about themselves.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This story has been rolling around in my head since fall of 2006. I have written it as part three of a series, but it also works as a stand-alone story. If you want the full effect, go back and read __Marked__ and __Marked Epilogue__ before starting this one. If not, however, feel free to dive in - I tried to make it self-explanatory. In fact, this was originally a completely separate story idea, which I almost wrote before I wrote Marked._

_I took a few liberties with the series characters - I promoted Bob Tompkins to Director and gave him a family. I gave Liz a sister. I gave Bradford an ex-wife. There are quite a few OC's in this fic – and of course, some whumping – Don, Charlie, Edgerton, whoever I could get my hands on. Yes, Edgerton's back. You can imagine how Don feels about that. _

_Disclaimer: I do not own Numb3rs or any of the characters. I do claim rights to the original story line. This disclaimer applies to every chapter in this story._

_Credits: Kudos as always to my faithful beta, Alice I. Her insights and feedback are invaluable, and so much appreciated._

_9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999_

**Traitor** **Chapter 1**

Don sighed and rubbed his throbbing temple. "Let me guess. Highland Park again."

David nodded. "Yeah, but it wasn't a hooker this time. Victim's an actress, relatively small time, but a rising star. The Latino community's making an issue of this one."

Don ran a hand through his hair and looked across the desk at Megan. She looked tired; they all did these days. They had been inundated with cases lately, many of which Charlie normally would have helped with, but although he had been back on a few cases, Don had resisted getting him involved.

"We've got a series of four murders," Colby said quietly, and Don knew what he was insinuating. They had not had a case yet with a series of crimes where Charlie had not been able to help them out; inevitably he found some pattern, some connection; that led them somewhere. Somewhere, anywhere was definitely better than where they were with this case now.

No one had seen the brutal slayings; there was no apparent connection between the victims other than that they were young Latino women. The first ones had been prostitutes, but the latest case was a middle class actress, the darling of her neighborhood. Don didn't need David to tell him who she was. He had already gotten a call from the mayor, who was concerned about his Latino constituency. The case was heating up fast, and the media would have a field day with the latest victim.

"I know you've been trying to give him some slack," Megan said. She didn't have to refer to Charlie by name; they all knew where the conversation was leading.

"Yeah, well, it's not like I haven't asked him to consult lately," Don replied. It was true, after Charlie's struggle with post-traumatic stress because of the events at Los Padres, and his resulting terrifying break, that Don had refused to go to him for months. Charlie had recovered well enough over the summer to go back to teaching that fall; although Millie had temporarily removed any extra-curricular responsibilities and assignments from him that first semester.

He had done well, though, so well that in November, Don had grudgingly given him a small assignment, and through December two more had followed; full-blown cases both. Charlie had seemed eager to help, maybe too eager. Don was uncomfortably reminded of his brother's push to heal himself after Los Padres; Charlie had tried to move too fast, and the results had been disastrous. Don himself had had a hard time dealing with Charlie's return to consulting. His mind drifted back to the first case.

It was the second week in November, and Charlie had been hinting for a couple of weeks that he felt ready to come back, that he was interested in taking a case. Don finally, reluctantly had called him in on a relatively bland tax evasion scheme. As soon as his brother had shown up in the FBI offices that afternoon, Don wished he hadn't. There was something uncomfortable gnawing at his gut; and he spent the afternoon glowering as Charlie eagerly plowed through the data. That night, Don had his first nightmare; one to rival the terrible dreams that Charlie had after Los Padres.

After two more restless, terrifying, dream-filled nights, all of which involved his brother being cut to pieces before his eyes, Don had made an appointment with William Bradford. As Don thought back to his conversation with the therapist, he felt a bit of irritation return.

"So, what do you think triggered the dreams?" Bradford had asked him.

Don frowned and rubbed his forehead, then dropped his hand. "Well, obviously it has something to do with Charlie coming back to consult," he said, his voice tinged with impatience. Bradford was belaboring something blatantly apparent.

"Why did you ask him?"

"To consult? Well, he was hinting around that he wanted to start again, and I guess I just finally gave in."

"Gave in," Bradford repeated. "So the idea was his, not yours."

Don shrugged. "Yeah."

"And you don't think it's a good idea. Why is that?"

Don sighed. "I don't know. It's just that, after Los Padres, well, maybe he shouldn't be working with me. It's not necessary to expose him to that kind of risk."

"You're afraid that he will be put in a dangerous situation again."

Don answered, a little impatiently again. "Well, yeah." Bradford's bad habit of stating the obvious was annoying him.

"And if he is, you think that it would be your fault."

Don frowned at him. "Of course it would be. I'm the one who let him take the case."

"_Let _him take the case," repeated Bradford, emphasizing each word. "So Charlie has no say in the decision, no responsibility?"

"I didn't say that."

"You implied it. As much as you would like to control your brother's actions, you can't. He is requesting to work on cases with full knowledge that things could go wrong. After Los Padres, I would say that no one knows that better than him. As much as you appear to want to, you can't take responsibility for his decisions."

Don shook his head and looked at the ceiling, with barely disguised irritation. Bradford eyed him for a moment, and continued. "So, why stop with the FBI? He consults for other agencies. Are you going to tell him to stop that activity?"

"No," growled Don. "It's not my decision."

"Precisely," said Bradford. "And neither is his consulting work with the FBI. It's his. It just happens to be a decision that you have the power to influence. I suggest you spend some time thinking about why you feel the need to do that."

"_Because he's my brother," _Don thought stubbornly. "_Because I don't care what you say, if I can protect him, I will…_

In the weeks that followed, Don had resisted giving Charlie any more cases. He found himself spending long hours at work, just to have an excuse not go over to his brother's house, and face the inevitable questions about what was going on at the office, to have a reason for dodging Charlie's incessant hints.

When he did show up, he tended to immerse himself in something safe, like a game, so he wouldn't have to talk. Conversation inevitably led to discussion of what was going on at work. He could see the disappointment in his brother's eyes, and it made him feel guilty, but he wasn't about to give in on this. He even found an excuse to spend Thanksgiving away from home, by going with Liz to her sister's house.

In spite of his best efforts, Charlie had wormed his way into another case a few weeks later. He had given up on asking Don, and had instead begun showing up at the office, on the pretext of making a visit, and casually starting conversations with the other agents. One thing led to another, and before Don knew it, Charlie was immersed in a case. He managed the maneuver again successfully on yet another case, before the holidays hit. Don had to admit, halfheartedly, that they had gone well, and that Charlie had seemed to manage them without a problem.

It was now the third week in January; and Charlie had started the second semester with a full load of committee assignments, research projects, grad student mentoring, and everything else he had juggled before Los Padres. He had only been balancing that load for a couple of weeks, and Don had been hesitant to add anything to it. He was afraid that right now, however, he didn't have a choice. They needed something to break on this case, and quickly.

He looked at his team and sighed resignedly. "Okay, maybe I'll go see him this afternoon. Start gathering the case files; get all you can on the victim's routines." They nodded and left the room, leaving Don alone with his misgivings.

About an hour later; he was striding down the hallway toward Charlie's office with the files. At the sound of a familiar voice, he turned. Millie was bustling up the hallway with her own arms full of files, a silk scarf around her neck fluttering in her wake. "Don," she said, beaming. "How nice to see you." She was smiling, but her eyes were sharp. "What brings you here?"

"Oh," said Don his voice noncommittal, falling into step beside her, "Just a question for Charlie on a case."

"A quick one, I hope," said Millie. Her voice and her smile were pleasant, but the meaning behind her words was clear. "We have a meeting to plan for the reception and presentations this Tuesday. Oh it's going to be tremendous – the biggest event of the last two years. We're presenting results on two major research projects to the backers, plus proposing five new ones to interested parties. We will have major corporation heads present, guest faculty, and even two Senators – both of them Presidential hopefuls. The reception is black tie, of course. A chamber orchestra, caviar and champagne…"

As she prattled on, Don felt his spirits rising. Charlie was going to be much too busy to take the case. Don could go back to his team and superiors in good faith, with the answer that yes, he had asked, and unfortunately, his brother was not able to help. They could find another consultant if they needed one; or perhaps something would break; some new clue would surface.

They approached the door of Charlie's office, and Millie swept in, but Don paused, leaning on the door jamb. Amita, Larry, and another faculty member were seated at a table, and Millie joined them. Charlie was standing by his desk, in an animated discussion with two graduate students. The room seemed charged with activity, with pent up energy, and it all centered about his brother.

Amita had been staring at Charlie when Millie entered, and after a quick greeting, Don noticed that her gaze drifted back toward his brother again. She had a gleam of interest in her eye, and Don suspected that it wasn't due to the subject matter. He frowned slightly, and tossed a quick look at Charlie, who seemed oblivious to her attention. That was good, Don thought. The last thing his brother needed right now was the stress of a relationship, particularly one with Amita. Charlie didn't need the stress of a case either, and Don felt that he probably didn't need the added pressure of Millie's presentations, but unfortunately, he didn't have a lot to say about that.

As Charlie gave the grad students some final tips, waving his hands enthusiastically, Don had to admit, that although his brother looked a little wired, his gestures a bit frenetic, he looked alive, fully immersed in the moment. He was busy, but he seemed to be enjoying it. Don felt the tension in his gut relax a bit, and stepped aside as the students moved toward the doorway.

Charlie noticed him at that moment, and at the same time, Millie said a bit impatiently, "Charlie, we need to get going here."

Charlie held up a hand towards her, his eyes still on Don, and almost darted around the desk toward him. "Just a minute," he said. "Don, what can I do for you?"

Don felt a little twinge of guilt at the look on his brother's face; it was filled with eagerness and an almost childlike hopefulness, and Don suspected that his avoidance of Charlie in the past weeks was a big reason for the reaction. He glanced at Millie over Charlie's shoulder, and noted the slight look of disapproval, then resignation, pass over her face.

"Oh, hey, Charlie," he said. "You look pretty busy. I can come back-"

"No, nonsense," replied Charlie quickly. "What do you need?"

Don lowered his voice, with a glance at the group behind his brother. "Well, we've got this case – multiple homicides, same M.O., all in Highland Park, Latino women…you know; you really look too busy for this. Just forget it." He paused expectantly, waiting for Charlie to take the out he had just given him.

"No, it's fine," said Charlie, reaching for the files. "I can take a look."

Don held on to them, instigating a minor tug of war. "No, it's not a big deal – you've got a lot going-"

"No, really," insisted Charlie, pulling on the files with a surprisingly strong grip and wrenching them out of Don's hands. "It's fine. This is data? I'll look it over as soon as I'm done with this meeting." He lowered his voice and rolled his eyes, grinning. "Millie and her black tie receptions…" His eyes found Don's and he searched them for a moment; then smiled uncertainly. "Okay, then-"

"Yeah, okay," said Don uneasily. This had not gone the way he planned. "Well, if you decide after looking at it that you don't have time, just let me know."

Charlie turned with the files in one arm, waving him off. "It's fine. See you later."

Don stood in the doorway for a moment, and watched Charlie take a seat next to Amita. She shifted ever so slightly until her elbow rubbed Charlie's and he looked at her with a smile. Don sighed and shook his head, and headed back down the hallway. Too much. Charlie was taking on way too much.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

As Charlie sat down, Larry was deep in a discussion with Dr. Grayson, a colleague in the Physics department. Charlie's eyes rested on his friend for a moment. Larry had been off on a guest teaching assignment at M.I.T. during the spring semester and also for the summer session; he had been gone during the events of Los Padres, and Charlie had missed him more than he cared to admit. Larry had returned; Charlie was back in full swing at school; things seemed normal again. He even had an assignment from Don. His spirits rose, and he smiled at Amita, who held his eye and smiled back. His good mood was short-lived.

"Before we begin," said Millie, "I do have some news – sad news, I'm afraid. Larry and Charlie, you knew Harold Staunton, right?"

Charlie sobered, and his face registered confusion. He exchanged an uneasy glance with Larry. _Knew. She said knew._ "Dr. Staunton was at Princeton when Larry and I were there – he was my professor for Applied Differential Equations. He's at M.I.T. now." He looked at Amita and Dr. Grayson, who sat on Amita's right. "He's one of the most brilliant mathematicians of our generation."

Millie nodded. "I thought perhaps you knew him. He passed away yesterday – apparent heart attack."

Larry's hand crept toward the top of his head. "Oh, my. I saw him regularly at M.I.T. – in fact I worked with him in August on a teaching demo before I left…" He trailed off, a distraught look on his face.

Charlie felt his heart drop. "Heart attack? But he couldn't have been more than – what?" He looked at Larry for help. "Early fifties, maybe?"

"Fifty-two," said Millie softly. "A tremendous loss." She paused for a moment to let them process the news, and then spoke briskly. "All right, we have a lot to cover here. Anything we don't get done today we will have to cover tomorrow afternoon."

"What – what time?" asked Charlie distractedly, his mind still on the disturbing news.

"Tomorrow? One o'clock."

"Well, let's review my presentations first and get them out of the way," suggested Charlie. "I can't be here tomorrow at one."

Millie raised an eyebrow. "And why is that?"

Charlie met her eye squarely. "I have an appointment," he said quietly but firmly. "I can't miss it."

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Charlie sat at his desk and took a swig of coffee, punching in Don's office number on his desk phone. Coffee had at first seemed like a good idea, as he had been up a good part of the night before, working on presentations and Don's data. In spite of that, he felt jazzed, energized, and the coffee was decidedly overkill.

He was back to full speed, after a semester that had been less than challenging. The reduced workload had probably been a good idea for the first two weeks, and after that he was bored. He had come to the conclusion that he didn't feel happy, heck, he didn't feel alive, if he wasn't stretched to the limit, clicking on all cylinders. Now that he was back at a full load, he was fired up, charged up, revved up, and although he had felt a twinge of anxiety creep in during the last week or so, he was glad to be back. Above all, he was glad to be working on a case for his brother.

The phone went to voice mail, and a look of disappointment crossed his face. He tapped the desk impatiently while the message spun out, and at the beep left one of his own. "Hey, Don, I went over what you gave me, and, well, I need more data. I need routines, details, as much as you can get of them. I did find that they all frequented the same market, but that's about all that came out of what was there. Call me back when you get a chance."

As he hung up, he heard a voice behind him. "Charlie." _Flip._

He turned with a smile. "Oh, hey, Amita." She smiled back, and at the sight his heart flipped again. _'Cool it, Eppes,' _he thought to himself_. 'Get yourself under control.'_ He had convinced himself that one thing he did not need was to get involved in another on-again, off-again relationship with Amita. Her decision to start seeing someone else the last spring had devastated him, and although it was short-lived and she indicted that she wanted to start seeing Charlie again, he had told her no.

After he came back in the fall it had been a little awkward at first, but then they had settled into a fairly comfortable state. Talk became easier again, then talk became friendly banter, and lately the banter had become flirtatious. It was obvious that Amita was interested in rekindling the relationship, and although he lectured himself that it was not a good idea, Charlie had done little to discourage her. In spite of his best intentions, her presence generated a flutter of excitement, of anticipation. Just last week, he had caught himself, to his dismay, staring at her with a deer-in-the-headlights expression that had to be obvious to anyone watching.

He tried to look professional, businesslike. "What can I do for you?" '_God, she looks good.'_

Amita stepped closer to the desk, and uncomfortably close to him. "I was wondering if you could look over my presentation." She leaned over, laying a folder in front of him.

'_Wow, she smells good too. Wonder what perfume that is…' _He swallowed hard and opened the file in front of him. "Sure, let's see…" He scanned the pages quickly, acutely aware of her body, just inches away from his.

"The work looks fine," he said, as he scanned the last pages. "You just might want to add Dr. Heilman to your references; I know his work is kind of a standard now, but it still might be a good idea. Sometimes these corporate sponsors bring their own experts along, and they like to impress their bosses by picking on things like that."

"Oh, right," she said, her brow furrowing prettily. "You wouldn't happen to have his book, would you?"

"Sure," he replied, rising. "I've got it right over here." She stepped back slightly, just enough for him to squeeze between her and the desk, and she smiled at him as he maneuvered himself a little nervously through the small opening. _Flip._

He made a beeline for his bookcase, his heart thumping a little, grateful for the chance to put distance between them. He scanned the shelves, and then pulled out a book. "Here it is," he said turning, and stopped abruptly, as he realized that she was standing right beside him. His turn put them face to face, just inches away, and they stared into each other eyes.

'_Deer in the headlights' _his rational mind was warning him, but somehow he couldn't react. She moved forward, gently, and her mouth found his. '_Damn it, Eppes, you don't need this right now. You don't… Oh my God…' _He stood still for a moment, letting her kiss him, and then suddenly he was kissing her back, as Dr. Heilman's work tumbled to the floor. His heart was thumping, and when they separated, they stood with their eyes locked on each other, both breathing heavily.

Amita found her voice first. "Charlie, you know how I feel about this, about us. I want to get back together. There's something there – I know you feel it too."

Charlie stared back at her. His heart wasn't content with single flips anymore; it was doing doubles, triples; quadruples with a twist. He reached forward and touched her face, and then kissed her again, a long heart-pounding, breathtaking, knee-trembling melding of lips. '_What are you doing, you idiot? This is the last thing you need. This is the last...' _The rest of his self-lecture swam off into oblivion.

They parted again, and Amita smiled, and gave a small self-conscious laugh, her eyes still fixed on his. "Well, I guess that answered my question."

'_This is where you apologize, dummy; tell her no, it's not a good idea…' _Charlie smiled back, his eyes soft. "I guess so."

She shrugged, smiling shyly. "Well, I guess I need to go fix this presentation." She backed away, her eyes still on him, Dr. Heilman lying forgotten on the floor, and then turned. "I'll see you later."

"Yeah, later," mumbled Charlie, his eyes fixed on her until she disappeared through the door. He smiled a bit dreamily, and then as the ramifications of what had just happened hit him, he put a hand over his face, closed his eyes, and groaned, leaning on the bookcase. Like it or not, ready or not, he had just entered back into a relationship that, if history was any judge, had the potential to break his heart.

"Dr. Eppes." The voice brought him back to reality. Cynthia, one his teaching assistants, a quiet, thin serious girl with Coke-bottle glasses, was standing in the doorway. "Sir, I'm sorry, but you had asked me to come find you if you were ever not in your lecture hall at five minutes before class time."

Charlie looked at the clock and almost leapt away from the bookcase, crossing the room in quick strides, and swept up his lecture notes from his desk. "That I did; thank you Cynthia. And I told you, you don't have to call me 'sir."

"Yes sir," she dutifully replied as they made their way down the hallway. Charlie winced, and rubbed an eyebrow with a forefinger.

Cynthia cast a dubious look at the men's room as they strode by, and she frowned. "Sir, you seem to be wearing a lot of lipstick today; you may want to wipe it off before you go into class." Charlie stopped dead, and she kept going without a backward glance, her back ramrod straight. He turned and dove into the men's room, grabbing a paper towel, and tried to wipe the grin from his face, along with the lipstick.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Dr. Michaels glanced at the clock and read 1:05. His patient was five minutes late; it was the first time that had happened. After Charlie had been discharged from the hospital, Michaels had set up frequent appointments, and had reduced the frequency as his patient had progressed. Twice a week had gone to once a week in the fall, and then once every two weeks in November, and in December, based on the progress that Charlie was making, they had decided on once a month. A month was a relatively long time, and Michaels was curious to know how Dr. Eppes was doing.

He heard voices in the outer office, and leaned back in his chair, watching as Charlie entered, a little breathless. "Dr. Eppes."

Charlie darted forward, and grabbed his outstretched hand. "I'm sorry I'm late," he said, "it's been a little crazy lately."

Dr. Michaels gray eyes narrowed slightly in amusement at the adjective but said nothing, watching Charlie whirl and find a chair. His patient seemed to exude energy, and Michaels watched, trying to get a read on what was driving it. "It's all right," he said finally. "Just relax. How has it been going?"

Charlie took a deep breath. "Good, I think. I ramped off of the medicine, the SRI last month, no problem. I'm back to a full load this semester, and I've been working a few cases for my brother, a couple in December, and one right now. I'm busy, but it feels good."

Michaels nodded. "That's good, but you need to be careful not to push it. You seem to be a little – wired. You may want to take things on a little more gradually."

Charlie sighed. "Actually, wired is pretty normal for me. And right now, it is a little more busy than usual. We're putting on a presentation for our research backers on Tuesday, and Millie's turned it into a big dog and pony show. Once that's over, things should calm down a bit."

Michaels pursed his lips, and studied him for a moment. "How are things with your brother?"

Charlie shrugged and looked away, but not before Michaels caught a flash of something – disappointment, sadness – on his face. "Okay."

"Just okay?"

Charlie paused for a moment, choosing his words. "I don't know; it's a little frustrating. After I got out of the hospital, he was around a lot – almost every day. We were spending a lot of time together – I told you we talked through that list of questions that Bradford gave us-,"

Michaels flipped open the file in front of him. "Yes, you gave me a copy. I've got it right here." He looked at Charlie. "So, all of that was good, right?"

Charlie became pensive. "Yeah, but it didn't last very long. It seemed like as soon as school started, and I started getting on my feet, he quit coming over. When he did, we didn't talk much – I mean, small talk and all, but not like we had been. It seemed as though we just kind of drifted back to where we were before – he'd come for dinner, maybe catch a game – not that there's anything wrong with that. I just thought we'd kind of progressed, you know, that maybe we'd gotten closer than that." He frowned and looked at his hands. "I guess I read it wrong."

"You said at our last meeting you were trying to get him to sit down and go through the list again. Did you ever do that?"

Charlie sighed. "No, I asked a couple of times, but he always had an excuse. It was sort of odd –he seemed like he wanted to talk more about it after we went through it the first time – in fact, he was the one that said we needed to work more on it. But when I asked, he was always too busy. In the end, I was back to the only way I know how to connect with him, just to spend some time with him – working on cases. And even there, I had to go to the office and get involved myself. He hasn't been bringing them to me, except for the one I have now."

Michaels sat and regarded him for a moment, thinking. This development wasn't good. It had become apparent early on in their discussions how much Charlie's world revolved around his brother. Michaels had suspected that a lot of the reason for Charlie's good progress after his psychotic break was due to support he was getting from Don. "What changed, do you think?"

Charlie looked down, but not before Michaels caught the look of sadness, of resignation. "I don't know – I think what happened is nothing changed. I think the fact that he came over more for a while was just something temporary, because Dad and I needed him, and now that things are back to normal with me, he doesn't feel like he has to."

"Like he has to," repeated Michaels. "You don't think he did that because he wanted to?"

Charlie looked at him. "Don has always felt responsible for me, I think. He was – I don't know – conditioned that way when we were younger; my parents always had him watch out for me. He supports me, sure, but I think he does it out of a sense of duty." He looked away. _Not out of love._

Michaels frowned and leafed through the pages in front of him. "I thought you both talked about that – here it is – the last question. 'You love your brother more than he loves you.' You said his answer was that he thought you were equal."

Charlie smiled ruefully. "Equal is relative. One hundred equals one hundred, zero equals zero. It could have meant that he feels very little, and he thought I felt the same way."

"Your answer indicated that you thought you loved him more – and it had always been that way. He didn't have anything to say about that – he didn't elaborate on his answer?"

Charlie shook his head, and snorted softly. "I didn't give him a chance. I jumped into this long-winded speech about how he had been there for me through everything that happened, and I told him he didn't have to say it – that I knew how he felt. I put words in his mouth."

"And how did he react to that?" Michaels watched as his patient looked away. Everything about him spoke of defeat; the downcast look, the set of his shoulders.

"I think I embarrassed him," said Charlie softly, looking at the floor. "I got kind of emotional when I said it. He made a joke to lighten the mood – he made some kind of comment in response to something I had said about always being right."

"You don't think that meant he agreed with you?"

"I think he tried to make it sound that way," admitted Charlie. "But what was he going to say if he disagreed? I was still recovering; he wasn't going to hurt my feelings if he could help it. It would have been a lot easier for him just to let it ride – to let me believe what I wanted."

"But how can you be sure how he feels – if you didn't discuss it?"

"Actions speak louder than words," said Charlie softly. "If he meant it, he'd still be coming around more; we'd be talking more…" He trailed off and shrugged; pain in his eyes.

"He wasn't around for the holidays?"

"He's been seeing someone – he went with her to her sisters' house for Thanksgiving. It was the first Thanksgiving he hasn't come over since he moved back to L.A. Dad was a little upset."

"And in December? You're Jewish, is that correct?" asked Michaels glancing at the patient profile sheet that Charlie filled out. "Do you celebrate Hanukkah?"

Charlie smiled, and shook his head. "Actually it's a little strange, what we do. We _are_ Jewish, but we were never very observant. Dad goes to synagogue sometimes, and actually I've gone a couple of times myself this fall, but we always celebrated Christmas – more as a secular holiday than a religious one. I think when we were little we didn't understand why all of our friends got presents that day, and my Mom felt bad about it. So she started getting a tree, and we'd exchange a few gifts. As we got older, we just continued it – I think we do it more for my dad now than for us."

"So, did he come over?"

"Yeah, he did come over Christmas day. We exchanged gifts, had dinner."

"You exchanged gifts. What did you get each other?"

Charlie shrugged and looked away. "I don't know – we usually get just a few small things, really. Don and I went in on some theatre tickets for Dad; we got him some clothes, a new easy chair. I got Don some shirts, a set of classic baseball videos, and a backpack. He had to borrow one of mine when we went to Los Padres. I think that last one was wishful thinking on my part. I thought maybe I could get him to go out backpacking with me."

"And what did your brother get you?"

Charlie looked down. "He, uh, he forgot it. He said he left it at home."

Michaels' brow furrowed. It was the third week of January. "He hasn't been back over since then?"

Charlie sighed. "Yeah, a few times, briefly. He keeps saying he forgot it."

"And this bothers you?"

"I don't know. On top of everything else – I guess it hurt my feelings a little." He snorted in derision, a wry smile on his face. "That sounds pretty pathetic. A grown man, Jewish no less, upset because he didn't get a Christmas present. That's actually a pretty good one." He looked up still smiling, trying to make light of the situation, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "So anyway, can we talk about something else for a while?"

Michaels nodded thoughtfully. "Sure. I'm curious – you said you went to synagogue a couple of times this fall. Is that something you do on an occasional basis?"

"Actually, no," replied Charlie, relaxing a little now that they were on safer ground. "I never was one to really believe in religion – it didn't seem to reconcile with math very well. But after Los Padres – I don't know – it made me think about my own mortality, made me question whether or not there was something else out there. Who am I to judge – you know, Einstein believed in God…" He branched off into an enthusiastic discussion of Einstein's views of the universe and a higher power, and Michaels sat and listened, and watched.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Forty minutes later, Charlie found himself outside Michaels' office building, heading back toward his car. The sleek building housed a number of offices, mostly medical, and the parking area was set in from the street, along a walkway. As Charlie passed the row of cars, he was staring absently at the sidewalk, his thoughts occupied with his conversation with Michaels. He was so engrossed; he didn't notice the two men in dark suits until they were beside him, flanking him on either side.

He looked up in surprise, his steps slowing, and one of them pulled out identification. Even without it, he recognized one of the NSA agents; he had seen him before on a trip to Washington, and although they hadn't met, Charlie hadn't forgotten him – the man looked uncannily like a younger version of Don.

The other man, whose shoulders filled out his suit to the bursting point, spoke softly. "Dr. Eppes. We need you to come with us. This way, please." He made a small movement with his hand, and Charlie saw that a dark limousine had pulled up behind the parked cars. Charlie hesitated just a moment, then moved toward it and, as a door opened, got in. The agents surveyed their surroundings carefully; then got in behind him, and the vehicle slid quietly away.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Charlie looked into the eyes of Robert Tompkins, Assistant Director of the NSA, seated across from him. '_Director,'_ Charlie corrected himself. Tompkins had been the recipient of a promotion since Charlie had last worked for him. The two NSA agents sat on either side of Charlie, and two more flanked Tompkins. Tompkins' presence was disconcerting; the limousine ride seemed a little cloak-and-dagger, and Charlie's heart was beating just a trifle fast. Before last year's black tie reception, Millie had joked about Charlie assuming his James Bond persona, along with his tux, and Charlie smiled inwardly at the thought, wondering what she would think if she saw him now. "Director," he said, hoping he sounded calm. "What can I do for you?"

Tompkins smiled, but his eyes looked tired. "Professor Eppes. I was hoping you'd ask that. We do need your help." His eyes searched the face in front of him. "Actually, I was hoping I wouldn't have to ask. I heard about your – illness – and I really didn't want to come to you with anything so soon. Unfortunately, we have no choice."

Charlie could feel a knot of tension starting in his stomach. "No choice?"

Tompkins looked down at his hands, then up at Charlie. "We have some information – in code – and we need the code broken. Our experts tell us it's very high level, very sophisticated. We had given it to another person, a mathematician, who, like yourself, excels at code. Regrettably, he passed away yesterday, without making much progress. You may have known him – Harold Staunton."

Charlie's heart took an uncomfortable dip. "Yes, I heard. It was a heart attack?"

"We performed a quiet, but very thorough autopsy. It did actually appear to be bona fide heart failure."

Charlie glanced a bit apprehensively at him. "Appeared," he repeated.

Tompkins leaned forward. "Whatever this is, this information, we think it's something extremely important. We could find no evidence that Dr. Staunton's death was anything other than by natural cause, but we cannot be too careful. If you decide to take this case, as a precaution, I intend to assign these four gentlemen to your security detail. Two of them will cover your daytime movements, and two of them will be assigned to your house at night."

His expression intensified, and his voice softened. "The coded information was recovered from a double agent within the NSA. The agent is being held on treason charges. We have no reason to think anyone else in our agency is involved, but to be sure, I wanted to deliver this to you myself. The men seated around you have been with the agency for years. I'm not trying to scare you, Dr. Eppes; on the contrary, I want you to feel secure." His eyes bored into Charlie's. "We need you to take this case."

The knot tightened in Charlie's stomach, but he spoke steadily. "Of course. Is there a deadline?"

"As soon as possible," replied Tompkins, quietly.

Charlie thought of Millie's reception, and Don's case, and felt suddenly a bit overwhelmed, but he fought it down, and nodded. Tompkins proceeded to introduce the other men. Charlie filed the names away in his head – Dan Caldwell was the man who looked like Don, the big man with him was Joe Sithman… his thoughts were interrupted as Dan pulled out a soft-sided black computer case, much like Charlie's own, only thicker, and handed it to him.

Tompkins spoke. "This case contains a laptop with the information loaded on it. There is some equipment in the case for destroying the hard drive and any jump drives if you feel you are about to be compromised." Charlie swallowed. He was feeling more and more like James Bond, and had decided he liked it less and less.

Tompkins continued. "We will show you how to use the equipment – it's very simple. There is an extra compartment in the briefcase for another laptop – your own – so you do not need to carry two cases."

He handed Charlie a small black cell phone. "You can use this phone to contact me personally. The signal is encrypted, so it is impervious to listening devices. It is imperative that no one know you are working on this. Even if any of your family or coworkers had the appropriate clearances, which they don't, I would ask you not to involve them."

Although Tompkins didn't say it, Charlie knew that his last comment was directed toward Don. He nodded. "My father will be gone for most of the weekend," he said, with a glance at the agents. "I should be able to work uninterrupted."

Tompkins gave a brief nod in return, and continued. "You will communicate any findings directly to me and to me only." Charlie listened to the instructions, including the instructions for the destruction of the hard drive, his thoughts whirling. The vehicle stopped, and he realized with a start he was back at the medical offices.

"When you get into your car, wait a minute or two to let Joe and Dan get situated so they can follow," said Tompkins. He held out his hand and looked at Charlie intently. "Thank you, Dr. Eppes. I'm indebted to you."

Charlie took Tompkins' hand and spoke with a calmness he didn't feel. "My pleasure, Director."

Tompkins smiled. "It's still Bob, to you."

Charlie smiled back. "Then stop calling me 'Dr. Eppes.'"

Tompkins grinned, and for the first time, the worry dropped from his face. "Take care, Charlie. If you need anything, the first number on the phone is me. The next four are your security detail. Good luck. Keep me posted."

Charlie nodded, and climbed from the limo. He headed straight for his blue Prius, clutching the briefcase. He waited two minutes, three, four, then started the car. As he backed out of the parking spot, he saw a black Acadia pull out from the curb, and fall in behind him. James Bond, indeed. He was fairly certain that James Bond wouldn't be caught dead in a Prius; and he certainly wouldn't feel the anxiety that Charlie was feeling now. It reminded him uncomfortably of how he felt after Los Padres, and he straightened himself and set his shoulders firmly, willing the uneasiness back down.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don parked in the street in front of Charlie's house, scowling at Amita's car in the driveway. He paused for a moment, looking at the pile of files in the seat next to him. He had his team gather the additional information that Charlie had requested that morning in his phone message, but he still had half a mind to pull his brother off the case. He sighed and rubbed his face in exasperation.

He had to admit, he was actually looking forward to coming over to Charlie's for the first time in a long time, and he knew it was because he had nothing to lose. He wouldn't have to worry about dodging hints and requests to help, because Charlie was already assigned to the case. He could actually sit down and a have a conversation this evening, because he wouldn't feel the need to avoid his brother, and he had been anticipating it. He looked sourly again at Amita's car. Not that he would get the chance for that, with her here. He sighed, picked up the files with resignation, and opened the car door.

The front door was unlocked and he poked his head in; then followed it with the rest of his body. He frowned at the suitcase sitting on the floor, just as Alan came down the stairs with a smaller bag. "Hey, Donnie," said his father, cheerfully.

"Hey, Dad. Going somewhere?"

"I thought I told you. Stan and I are going to an architecture show in Phoenix this weekend." He eyed the folders in Don's arms. "Charlie told me he was working on a case for you. Seemed pretty excited about it. If those are for him, he's in the garage."

Don's eyes flickered toward the kitchen, and he made a face. "What's she doing here?"

Alan set the bag down and turned, his eyebrows raised. "Amita? She came in with an armload of files, much like you. Said something about Charlie missing his one o'clock meeting, and she had some changes from Millie." His face softened with a smile. "It was good to see her again."

He looked over his shoulder and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "If you ask me, they're acting like an item again."

"Great," muttered Don.

Alan frowned. "You don't seem pleased."

"Dad, he doesn't need this right now."

Alan raised his eyebrows. "Doesn't need what? A girlfriend? A social life? I wasn't aware that you'd become his social director."

Don scowled. "He doesn't need a relationship with Miss I-Can't-Make-Up-My-Mind. He's just getting back on his feet."

Alan shot him a slightly sarcastic look, but softened it with a smile. "The last time I checked, he seemed like he was pretty steady on his feet to me." He turned toward the kitchen and said archly, "Of course, it's been awhile since you spent any time over here, maybe you weren't aware."

Don rolled his eyes. Okay, maybe he deserved that, but it didn't change his mind. He shifted the pile of files in his arms – darned things were getting heavy – and headed for the garage.

He pushed the door open without ceremony, and strode in, as if he were delivering a challenge instead of an armload of files. Charlie and Amita jumped and moved away from each other guiltily as the door swung open. Amita recovered first and sent him a smile. "Oh, hi, Don."

"Amita," he returned gruffly, purposely keeping the greeting short. He glowered at Charlie. "I got the data you wanted."

Charlie looked at the pile with a sinking heart. It was nearly as big as the one Amita had just delivered. He had been thinking of actually calling his brother and asking to be taken off the case, but from the look on his brother's face, that might not be an option. "Oh, uh, okay," he stammered. "Put them on the table. I'll look at them as soon as I can."

Don set them down with a thud next to another large pile of files, and leaned against the table, waiting. They looked back at him, and the silence grew suddenly awkward.

"Well, uh, okay then," said Amita, turning to Charlie. "You look really busy; I should get out of here. I'll see you Monday." Charlie murmured a goodbye, and she hurried past Don with an uncertain glance. "Bye."

The door closed behind her, and Charlie looked at Don, a mixture of bewilderment and irritation on his face. "Bad day at the office?"

"My day was just fine," growled Don. "You really think that's a smart idea?"

"What?" asked Charlie defensively, his irritation growing. Whatever his brother was getting at, he really didn't need it right now. The assignment from Tompkins was weighing on his mind, and not being able to start on it was making him crawl inwardly with impatience.

"Her."

Charlie had turned away to the chalkboard, and swung back around, his face a mixture of anger and confusion. "What about her? And why do you care?"

Don's scowled deepened. "After what you just went through, do you really think you should be diving into a relationship with someone who likes to use you as a doormat?"

The fact that his brother was probably right did nothing to lessen Charlie's anger. He snapped. "First of all, our relationship is none of your business. Secondly, why are you suddenly concerned about it? You haven't even been around the last few months, and now you want to lecture me on my love life? I'm doing just fine, thank you." He turned back around to the board, and began to write furiously. "I'm really busy right now, so if you don't mind…"

Don stared back, momentarily disconcerted by the shot his brother had delivered, frustration rising in him. He really couldn't argue with him, and the feeling of guilt made him even angrier. "Whatever, fine." So much for a conversation. He turned and stomped toward the door, snapping, "Let me know when you've got something."

He slammed the door on his way out, and Charlie turned his head. His shoulders slumped in defeat for just a moment; then he shook his head, running a frustrated hand through his hair, and headed for his computer. He pulled up a chair; and with a sidelong glance at the door, opened the laptop and pulled up the files that Tompkins had given him. Moments later, he was immersed in the data, the fight with his brother an uneasy memory in the back of his mind.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don lay on his back staring at the ceiling, as Liz traced a light pattern on his bare chest with a forefinger, her head propped on her hand. He had purposely left the weekend open to do something with Charlie, but after their argument, he had spent Friday night with the better part of a twelve-pack, and Saturday night with Liz. Through it all, he brooded. He imagined that he was not the best company, and wondered if Liz had noticed. Hell, who was he fooling? Even the twelve-pack had to notice.

As if to confirm his thoughts, Liz spoke, "Penny for your thoughts."

He forced a smile, which took on genuineness as he caught her eyes. "What thoughts? You think I have any brains left, after that?"

She smiled back. "You seem a little preoccupied."

He sighed and looked back at the ceiling. "Oh, Charlie's just got me a little worried, that's all."

Liz fought down a small twinge of jealousy. Since Los Padres, Charlie always had him worried. Her voice light, she asked innocently, "What about?"

"I don't know, I just think he's biting off more than he can chew right now. I mean, he seems fine, it's more of a feeling than anything else…"

"I'm sure he _is_ fine," said Liz smoothly. She smiled mischievously. "I know a way to take your mind off of it." She leaned forward and kissed him, a slow lingering kiss that ended in a tantalizing light brush of the lips.

She was right; it did take his mind off of it, for a while. But later that night after the lights were out, the feeling was back, and Don found himself again staring at the ceiling. He decided on the spot that he would head over to Charlie's tomorrow, argument or not; he would eat crow if he had to. Something was not right. He couldn't place it, but he could feel it. Something was just not right…

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 3


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Alan let himself in with the key, set his bags down, and took in the silence. The air smelled a little stale; like the house had been closed up all weekend. It was late Sunday afternoon, and Charlie's car was in the driveway; he had to be here somewhere. "Charlie?" he called, in case his son was upstairs. The quiet was his only response

He headed for the garage, stopping in the kitchen on the way. No dirty plates in the sink. Charlie must have cleaned up after himself; that was a first. On a whim, he opened the refrigerator, and felt a little twist of apprehension as he saw the untouched meals he had set there for Charlie, still sitting exactly the way he had left them.

He opened the garage door, and breathed a sigh of relief as he saw his son, hunched over his computer. Charlie jumped, and looked up a bit wildly, then pulled the laptop cover partly down, protectively. "Dad! I thought you weren't coming home until Sunday."

Alan's relief evaporated. He took in the stubble on Charlie's face, the disheveled clothes, and the half empty bag of pretzels, sitting on the table amid files. He frowned at his son, peering into his eyes. "Charlie, it _is_ Sunday."

Charlie looked disconcerted, then a little panicked, and stared back down at his laptop.

Alan pursed his lips. "Charlie, please tell me you ate something other than pretzels this weekend."

Charlie looked up, torn away from his thoughts. "What? Uh, yeah, I had a granola bar…" His eyes shifted downward again, focused on something inside his head, and Alan could almost see the wheels spinning.

He stepped forward, and Charlie lowered the laptop cover a little more. "Son, are you okay?"

"What?" the word came out in surprise; then Charlie laughed a little nervously, as he realized what his father was getting at. "Oh, yeah, Dad, I'm fine – just loaded with work. This is temporary, trust me. A few days of this, and things will settle down." He looked steadily, purposefully into his father's eyes. "I'm fine."

Alan grunted. "That's your opinion. You could use a shower." He turned, and headed out of the garage, his immediate fears alleviated by Charlie's steady reaction. He was not happy about this, however; not at all.

Charlie watched him go; then pulled open his laptop screen again. The code was indeed sophisticated, and he had spent the weekend working in intense concentration. From time to time, to give his mind a break, he had worked on Don's data, hoping the change in subject would give him a new perspective. He hadn't slept much, he realized now; just a few hours on the sofa, and apparently had forgotten to eat much. He was driven by the work, and starting to feel a little panicky. He was running out of time; the week would hit with his classes and the presentations on Tuesday, and he had hoped to have made at least some progress on the code. At the thought of Millie's presentations, he groaned. The files that Amita had brought still sat on the table, untouched.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don parked his SUV on the street again, and got out, pulling grocery bags from the back seat. He had brought steaks and beer as a peace offering, and as he lifted the bags his eyes caught the black Acadia parked down the street. It looked strange and vaguely familiar at the same time; he was fairly certain it had been there Friday, but he didn't recognize it as one of the neighbors' vehicles. Someone must have company for the weekend, he thought absently.

He lugged his groceries into the kitchen, and turned as Alan came in behind him. "Hey, Dad. I brought some steaks – I figured you might need dinner for tonight."

Alan took a bag from him, gratefully. "Thanks – I just got in and haven't had a chance to get to the store. I thought we were going to be stuck eating the meals I left for Charlie." He looked at Don. "I take it you didn't come over this weekend?"

Don opened the refrigerator and made room for the beer, avoiding his father's eyes. "Uh no, had a date Saturday, why?"

Alan sighed. "I think you may be right about Charlie. Taking on too much, I mean."

Don straightened quickly, almost bumping his head on the freezer door. "Why?"

"He spent the whole weekend in the garage – I don't think he showered, and he didn't eat any of the food I left him. Pretzels." He snorted. "He ate pretzels."

Don forehead crinkled in a worried frown. He shouldn't have given Charlie that case, he knew it – he knew it. "Maybe I'll go talk to him," he said, heading for the garage. "I can take that case back off of him; it's no problem…"

Charlie grimaced in annoyance as the door opened again. "Dad, I'm trying to work here…" his voice trailed off as he caught sight of his brother, and he automatically half-lowered the laptop cover again, staring.

"Hey," said Don, standing in the doorway awkwardly.

Charlie relaxed a little, taking the word for what it was; a tentative olive branch. "Hi."

Don shifted his weight from one foot to another; then said suddenly, "You know Charlie, about that case, if it's too much, you don't need to finish."

"No, it's okay," said Charlie. "I actually might have found a connection."

Don started forward. "Yeah?" His eyes narrowed as he watched Charlie quickly type something and click the mouse, then shut the laptop with a snap. "New computer?"

"Uh, not exactly. It's a loaner." Charlie tried to yank the subject back to the case, and stood stiffly and walked over to the table, stretching. He pulled out a file. "The first victim worked an area of the neighborhood near a daycare center. The next two actually had children at the same center. I didn't find a link between the daycare center and the actress, but I only have her daily routine information. If she visited the center, or the vicinity, even once for any reason in the last couple of weeks, you might have a point of commonality."

Don nodded. "Okay. We can check it out. Thanks." He looked at his brother. Charlie looked tired, and Don could feel the tension emanating from him. "You okay?"

Charlie shrugged and avoided his eyes as he walked back to his laptop. "Yeah, fine. Just busy." He sat down and looked up expectantly, and Don realized that he was waiting for him to leave.

Don felt a twinge of disappointment. "Okay, well, I'm gonna help Dad with dinner. I brought steaks."

"Sounds good," said Charlie absently, as he pulled the laptop open. He hit a few buttons then paused, his fingers strumming the desk impatiently. Don had the distinct impression that Charlie didn't want him to see what he was working on, and he had a sudden ridiculous urge to dash over and take a look, just to see what his brother would do. He stifled it, and headed toward the kitchen, hearing fingers clicking on the keys behind him before he even shut the door.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Later that evening he was wishing he had taken that look. He and Alan were taking in a televised game, and Charlie was still in the garage, working feverishly. He had come in at dinner, and bolted down half of a steak, and had gone right back out again. Don was starting feel the tension radiating from Alan now, and he himself was curious. If Charlie had finished what he could on the case, what was he working on so hard? Millie's presentations? It could be, although Don couldn't see his brother getting that worked up over it. Maybe the workload was getting to him.

He suddenly heard the door to the kitchen burst open, and both he and Alan turned to look as Charlie dashed through on his way to the stairs, carrying his laptop with him. He took them two at a time, and then they heard his bedroom door slam. Alan raised his eyebrows and Don shrugged. "Don't look at me. He's done with my stuff."

His words were nonchalant, but he frowned as he eyed the television screen, his expression speculative.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

"There we are," breathed Charlie, moments earlier. There were two files; one fairly large, the other smaller, and he had finally managed to crack the code on the larger one. "Farsi," he murmured. The information was in Farsi, a type of Persian language commonly used in the Arabic world. Charlie was fluent in written Farsi, but didn't have much experience with the spoken version. Not that it mattered – code breakers didn't technically have to understand the language they were working in; there were translators for that. Charlie was well aware that it helped, however.

The reverse encryption was running, spitting out translated chunks of data, each associated with one of 25 large cities in the United States. For each city, there was a list of names, organized into a hierarchy. Each list appeared to be a cell – possibly of terrorists. There was a separate listing that showed the heads of each cell, and who they reported to – five cell heads reporting to each of five names. Charlie felt a little heartened by the success, but the smaller file would be the real challenge. It had at least two more levels of encryption layered on top of ones that this file had. Obviously, it was the more important of the two. Still, this was something.

He pulled up the NSA Secure Remote Access connection and loaded the translated file, entering the passwords needed to get to the site that Tompkins had given him. He hit send and saved the data, and felt in his pockets for the secure cell phone. It was upstairs, he remembered. He shut down the computer, and slinging it under his arm, bolted out of the garage door. Finally, some progress.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Bob Tompkins sat facing his second in command, Assistant Director Jeff Paulson. "So, nothing so far?" he asked. It was midnight on Sunday at NSA headquarters in Fort Meade, Maryland, and weariness showed in both faces.

Paulson shook his head. "We ran surveillance and did deep dive backgrounds on all of the likely people. They all came up spotless."

Tompkins ran a hand along his jaw. "We need to be sure there's no one else. Knight didn't have the right clearances to make her really useful to whoever she got the data from. There could be someone higher up."

Paulson shook his head. "All we can do is start on the next bunch – they seemed to be a lower risk for compromise, but maybe that makes sense."

"I know you're trying to be thorough, and it takes time, but we need to hurry this up a little. I haven't been able to disseminate anything sensitive since this happened – it's handcuffing us. I need to know that my organization is clean."

Paulson nodded, and opened his mouth to speak, but cut it off as Tompkins' cell phone rang. Tompkins took a look at the number and stood. "I need to take this – just stay put." He headed for the door that led to the outer office, empty at that hour, and Paulson heard his greeting on the way out. "Yes, Charlie, how are you? Great…" The door shut.

At the words, Paulson's gut clenched, and his eyes narrowed. He had found out that Dr. Eppes had been put on the case, and the doctor had apparently managed to find something. Why else would he call at this time of night? He fought down a rising sense of impatience. There was nothing he could do at the moment. As soon as he was out of here, he would contact his people. They had worked too long, too many years, for their plans to be exposed.

Tompkins came back in, snapping his cell phone shut. "Good news?" murmured Paulson.

Tompkins sighed. "So-so. Not complete yet, but we have progress."

He didn't elaborate, and Paulson knew better than to push for more information. Technically, he wasn't supposed to know anything about that case, but at Tompkins' reply, Paulson relaxed a little. They had some time, apparently – Dr. Eppes couldn't have found anything too important, yet, or Tompkins would not be so nonchalant. Time was good. And since Tompkins obviously didn't know anything vital yet, Paulson wouldn't have to kill his director on the spot, which was fortunate. "I'll get you the next list of personnel to be investigated first thing in the morning," he said calmly, rising. "You ought to get some sleep, Bob."

Tompkins nodded wearily. "You too, Jeff. Thanks."

"No problem," murmured Paulson, as he opened the door. "No problem at all."

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 4


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

"Charlie! Charlie!" Alan shook his sleeping son, who was lying face down on the sofa, with his computer bag for an uncomfortable-looking pillow. Alan wondered grimly how long Charlie had been up the night before – he had come back down from his bedroom and had gone straight back to work in the garage, and was still at it when Alan and Don had gone to bed at midnight. In spite of his worry, he had to chuckle as Charlie lifted his head and looked around dazedly, his face imprinted with the strap of the bag and his hair in an impossible construction that defied gravity.

Charlie blinked and sat up, rubbing his face. "What time is it?"

"Six-thirty."

Charlie uttered an exclamation and leapt up from the sofa and took off for the door, then ran back and grabbed the computer case, and whirled for the door again. Alan caught him by the arm. "Hold on there. I've got breakfast – you eat something first. Just slow down. There's nothing that is that important."

Charlie protested on the way into the kitchen. "I just meant to catch an hour nap. I need to get going."

Alan eyed him. "And how much sleep did you get?"

Charlie stomped into the kitchen, a little cross at the questioning. "I don't know; a couple of hours."

Alan pulled out a chair in front of a bowl of fruit and a plate of toast and eggs. "Sit. It takes you ten minutes. Eat something."

Charlie sat and sighed, and stuffed a bite of toast in his mouth. "Coffee?" he mumbled around the toast. Alan poured. "Thankth."

Don came shuffling in. "Got some of that for me?" He looked at Charlie. "Nice face." He sat down. "Nice hair, too."

Charlie grimaced. "I wouldn't talk if I were you." Don's hair was sticking out in tufts.

Don took a swig of coffee and regarded Charlie over the mug. Charlie was focused on his plate; was he avoiding him on purpose? Don watched him for a minute, and decided to go fishing. "So, what are you working on, Chuck?" he said softly, watching the reaction.

Charlie's eyes darted toward him, nervously; then found his plate again. He shoveled in a big bite of fruit, and then stood, mumbling, "Nothing. Stuff for Millie." He picked up the computer bag in one hand and the coffee in the other, and set off for the stairs at a trot. Don watched him go, his lips pursed, and then turned to see his father watching him. "What?" he asked defensively.

Alan shook his head and set a plate in front of him. "I wish I knew," he said.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Charlie hurried into the building that housed his office, almost passing the HVAC technicians before he realized who they were. Dan Caldwell and Joe Sithman, decked out in tan coveralls, were pulling a vent off the hallway wall. They traded quick, bland looks, and Charlie kept going with an even briefer glance. He had two hours before class, and he needed to finish going through the gala presentation material before he ran into Millie. He hurried into the office, lugging the black bag and an armful of files, and had hardly set them down before Dan Caldwell was behind him.

Charlie hadn't heard him come in, and his heart took an unhealthy leap when he turned, and found Dan standing next to him. Up close, Dan didn't look nearly as much like Don as Charlie had thought. He was younger, probably around thirty, and a little taller, and there were distinct differences to the features. Still, at first glance, the similarity was striking. Before Charlie could collect himself, Dan spoke.

"We took the liberty of putting a safe in your office yesterday," he said. "We put an inconspicuous trap door in the floor -," he crossed the room and moved a small rug aside. The rug hadn't been there before, but it looked worn, just a trifle shabby, as if it had lain on the floor for a year.

Charlie followed him and stared at the floor. Even knowing what he was looking for, he couldn't see it. Dan pressed on a knothole with his palm, and a section of the boards levered, lifting up on the other end enough to get a grip. Dan pulled the section of flooring off, revealing a small safe underneath.

He recited the combination; then said, "You try it." As Charlie opened the safe, he continued. "You can stash your computer here when you're in class or out of the office. No one knows about the safe except me, you, Bob, and the guy who put it in."

Charlie unzipped his computer case and slid the computer into the safe, laying a small jump drive on top, then closed the safe and replaced the flooring. They stood, and Dan slid the rug back into place. _James Bond._ Dan smiled. "It's nice to finally get a chance to meet you," he said. "Bob thinks a lot of you."

The thought that Tompkins talked about him to his staff was a little disconcerting, and it must have shown in Charlie's face, because Dan hastened to explain. "I'm Bob's son-in-law," he said.

Understanding dawned, and Charlie smiled. "Oh, you're Becky's husband. Caldwell, of course – I didn't make the connection. I met her and the baby at Bob's house once. How are they doing?"

"Good," grinned Dan. "The baby's two now, and we've got another one on the way." His expression changed suddenly, turning carefully neutral. "All right, thank you, sir. We'll come back when you're in class."

Charlie turned, to see Millie bustling through the doorway. "Okay, thanks," he replied, playing along.

Millie eyed Dan as he passed her, with a look of confusion. "Is there a problem?"

"No, ma'am," replied Dan. "We're on contract to clean the vents every two years."

"Oh, I wasn't aware of that," replied Millie, as Dan nodded and escaped. She turned her eyes to Charlie. "Good morning, Professor. I was hoping you'd be here. We can go over the presentation changes before class."

Charlie swallowed. This was unfortunate. "Well, uh, Millie, I didn't quite get them finished. I was going to work on them this morning."

She stared at him, trying to hide her disapproval, and failing utterly. "Charlie, I've been more than accommodating of your extracurricular activities. I know how much it means to you to work with your brother, but for it to get in the way of something like this – something that means so much to this school…"

Charlie interjected, his expression begging forgiveness. "I know, I understand. I'll have the presentation changes made this morning and get them submitted. We're meeting at 5:00 tonight, right? They'll be done in time for our review."

She sighed. Who could resist those eyes, that pleading look? Or for that matter, the eager expression Charlie wore when he was talking about his work. She was banking on that same expression; that look, to generate excitement among their potential backers tomorrow. She hoped it worked on them as well as it did on her. "All right then," she said, with a resigned smile. "Don't just stand there – get to work."

She exited the room smoothly, and Charlie breathed a sigh of relief, and glanced at his watch. The relief quickly turned to panic as he noted the time, and he darted over to the pile of files. Moments later he was immersed in work, oblivious to his surroundings.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

David strode into the bullpen. "Charlie was right. Lana Moreno was at the day care a week and a half ago, doing a publicity job to raise money for the community."

Colby grinned. "We're a step ahead of you. We just assumed Charlie was right, and we've been going through the personnel at the day care – everyone has solid alibis for the TOD's for at least two of the murders except for one person – Lenny Garza. He had alibis for none of them. We got a warrant for his place already."

David grimaced. "Thanks for telling me."

Megan grinned. "Anytime. Grab your flak jacket, mister; we're going on a raid."

"What, we aren't holding him?"

Don grimaced. "LAPD questioned him; then let him go. He must know something's up; he's AWOL from the day care center. I doubt he'll be hanging out at his place, but without knowing for sure, we'll need to gear up. Let's get moving."

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Jeff Paulson spoke into the encrypted phone quietly. He was standing at the edge of a Baltimore park, in a spot where the walk dead-ended, lessening the chance of encountering walkers or joggers, not that there were that many, in January. The park was nearly deserted. He huddled in his wool coat; he could see his breath in the freezing air. "Dr. Eppes has found something. We need to deal with him."

The voice on the other end carried a slight accent. "_We need him alive. We need to know how much he knows, and how much he has told Tompkins."_

"We should have disposed of him before he found anything, like we did with Staunton."

"_Hindsight is always correct. Staunton had the information for a month, and still had made no progress; and we only need ten days. Who would have guessed that Eppes would move so quickly? I say again, we need him alive. We have planned for this for years; I do not want to abort if we do not have to. If we find they do not know; we will leave our people in place, and proceed."_

"I understand. We are putting plans together as we speak. We will have him by this evening, California time. He will make no further progress with the code today; he has classes, and I've already confirmed that he is at school."

"_Very well. Contact me when he is in your possession." _

The phone emitted an electronic click, and Paulson snapped the receiver shut. He glanced casually around him, and strolled back up the walk, tucking his hands in his pockets for warmth.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don eyed the man in the interrogation room, almost absently, and glanced at his watch. Four-thirty. As he predicted, Lenny Garza was not in his apartment; the raid had actually turned into a rather mundane search, which netted little information. Then, at around three in the afternoon, LAPD sighted him near the bus station, and detained him. He had a backpack filled with clothing and was obviously planning a trip out of town. When they searched him, they found a switchblade. It had been cleaned, but not well, there were traces of blood on it, and it was now in the lab, which was obtaining samples for DNA tests. Garza wasn't talking yet, but when those lab tests came back he would, of that Don was sure.

The interrogation was going slowly; Colby and David were apparently trying to break Garza by mind-numbing repetition, and Don's thoughts began to stray to the other mystery on his mind. Charlie was working on something that he couldn't tell him about, he was certain. A consulting job, high clearance no doubt. The idea bothered him; he had been concerned about giving Charlie this job, but at least here he had a little control over things – he could have pulled his brother off at any time.

He smiled mirthlessly to himself as he recalled his conversation with Bradford. Bradford would be calling him a control freak if he knew that he was worrying over a consulting job that he had no connection with, one that his brother had apparently taken on willingly. Still, it bothered him. It bothered him that Charlie was pushing himself so hard, it bothered him that he didn't know what his brother was dealing with. Probably something mundane, he chided himself, but even as he thought that, another thought came and pushed it out, making his heart contract - the black Acadia.

It had been gone that morning when Don came out of the house, but so was Charlie, by that time. Was his brother under surveillance? Don frowned. He could feel the hinky feeling returning, and he stepped out of the room, and headed toward Megan. "Hey," he said, as she looked up. "Can you take over for me? I need to check on something. If Colby and David haven't gotten anywhere in another half hour, have them lock Garza up until the lab results come back. We'll let him stew for a while."

"Sure." Megan rose and headed for the observation room, and Don quickly locked his desk, glancing at his watch on the way out. Four forty-five. He was going to have a little heart-to-heart chat with his brother.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

The relatively small hallway to Charlie's office was intersected by another, longer hallway, which dead-ended into the shorter one. Dan Caldwell and Joe Sithman had been following Charlie around for most of the day, picking the nearest vent outside his classrooms to work on. While he was in his office, they had worked on a vent in the larger hallway. It was now near the end of the day, and they moved to another vent in the short hallway. It was a few doors down, and the bigger hallway was between them and Charlie's office, but they felt they were becoming conspicuous by spending so much time on the same vent. They were still close by, and actually had a better view of Charlie's office door from the new spot.

Two janitors came into view, coming from the larger hallway, pushing a large cart that held an oversized trash bin and various cleaning items. They turned, and headed for Charlie's office. Sithman and Caldwell looked at each other. "I've got it," said Joe, and he headed toward the office, as the custodians paused at the door.

Charlie scribbled on the board, and glanced at his watch. Twelve minutes to five. Millie and the rest of the planning group would be there in less than fifteen minutes. He had managed to finish the presentation material, and was itching to get the meeting over with, so he could escape and get back to working on the code. In the meantime, he forced himself to work on a lesson plan he needed to have done for Wednesday morning, working his way through the problem he planned to demonstrate. He glanced up as two figures appeared in the door.

One of the janitors spoke. "Do you mind, sir? We're going to sweep and empty the trash."

Charlie shook his head and turned back to the board. "No problem. We've got a meeting in here though, in ten minutes."

"Oh, we'll be done by then," said the man. They didn't look familiar, and as they moved toward him, Charlie glanced at them, feeling suddenly ill at ease. He relaxed a little as he realized he was standing by the trashcan – of course they would come toward him - and then relaxed even more as he caught a glimpse of Joe Sithman just inside the doorway, standing with his arms folded, observing the men.

He turned back to the board, stepping aside slightly to give them room to get at the trashcan, his eyes on the problem. He did not even get the chance to raise the chalk, when he was suddenly forced into the wall next to the chalkboard, and a hand clamped over his mouth. The air left him with a muffled, "Mmpff!" as his attacker pressed him against the wall, and a surge of panic raced through him.

His head was pinned with his face turned toward the doorway, and his eyes widened in fear. His left arm was trapped underneath him, and as he struggled to free it, he could see Joe, still standing there impassively, his arms folded over his chest. Charlie tried to cry out to him, but the sound was muffled by the big hand over his mouth. He stared in disbelief as Joe looked back coolly, and then fear surged anew as he caught a glimpse of a hand holding a hypodermic in his peripheral vision.

That fear gave him sudden strength, and he pushed away from the wall in a panic, stepping on one of his captor's feet as he did so. With his foot trapped, the man staggered backward, bringing Charlie with him, his hand still over Charlie's mouth. Charlie's arms were free momentarily, and he flailed wildly, as the man caught his balance. The other captor stepped forward to help, and they managed to pin one of Charlie's arms. As the second man closed in with the hypodermic, Charlie twisted suddenly, and grunted with pain as the needle made contact, then snapped off in his arm, tearing a jagged hole.

The man swore, and held up the now useless hypodermic. The man holding Charlie tightened his hand over Charlie's mouth, and twisted his arm mercilessly behind him. Charlie groaned, his head reeling from the pain, and his eyes fell again on Sithman, who was shaking his head with disgust. With a new flash of alarm, Charlie saw Sithman pull a small pistol out of his coveralls, insert a dart, and step forward, leveling it at Charlie's chest. Just as he pulled the trigger, Charlie heaved forward and down, bending at the waist. It was a good effort, but he was not strong enough to overcome the man who held him, and he felt a pinch, like a flash of heat, in his neck.

He gasped helplessly, still pinned against his captor, as he felt his body begin to go limp. His struggles weakened; then ceased altogether as the sedative took effect. The last thing he saw was Sithman's face, emotionless and cold, as his eyes drifted shut.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 5


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Joe Sithman tensed in the doorway; he could hear voices from the direction of the larger hallway, coming closer. He stepped out from the doorway and gave a reassuring nod to Caldwell. To his great relief, Caldwell was still in place, and nodded back; he had apparently heard none of the struggle. The last thing they needed right now was for Caldwell to decide to join him. The approaching voices were a problem, however.

The plan was for the so-called janitors to hide the professor's unconscious body in their trash bin, and wheel him out. From Caldwell's position down the hall, he would not be able to see into the bin; it would be Joe's job to make sure he didn't suspect anything; to make sure he kept his distance. As soon as the janitors were safely away, Sithman would tell Dan that he needed a bathroom break, and he would instead escape, and meet his accomplices at their van.

He quickly stepped down the hallway and took a look around the corner, into the larger hallway, looking for the source of the voices. Damn. He recognized the group as Charlie's peers from pictures that he and Dan had been given when they were briefed on the assignment. Finch, and the two professors – the two women and the shorter man were undoubtedly on their way to meet with him. They were too close, Sithman realized with frustration and dismay; his accomplices were not going to have enough time. With a supreme effort, he maintained his self-control and nodded again at Caldwell, who relaxed a bit, but kept a watchful eye on the hallway entrance. Sithman hurried back to the office door, this time stepping inside.

The two men were just easing Charlie's body to the floor, in order to get a better grip on it. One of them pulled the dart from his neck and put it in his pocket, and Sithman paused for just a moment, pondering the possibility of eliminating the whole group. Too dangerous, he decided. They could take out Caldwell, but possibly not before he took at least one of them. Shooting at each other in the hallway would be like shooting fish in a barrel. In the meantime, the others might run for help. No, this mission was a lost cause. Sithman hissed at them. "Abort! We're about to have company. Head out now; I'll be right behind you." They looked up, hesitating, and Sithman hissed again. "Now, damn it!"

They released Charlie's limbs and took off through the door, and Sithman shot one last disgusted look at the body on the floor. There would be hell to pay for this botched attempt. He took a deep breath and shouted Caldwell's name, and sprinted out after them. "Check on the professor!" he yelled at Caldwell, as he emerged from the room. "I've got these two!" Dan had looked up, startled, as the janitors charged toward the large hallway and had shot to his feet, heading after them. As he heard Sithman, he changed course, racing instead toward Charlie's office.

The accomplices had turned the corner into the larger hallway, and barged through the approaching group. Millie and Amita looked alarmed, and ducked to one side of the hall, but Larry was a little too slow too react, and one of the men backhanded him as he approached, knocking him sideways. Larry went down in flurry of papers, and Sithman raced through between them, after the men. As they disappeared down the hallway, Millie and Amita hurried over to Larry, who was sitting slumped dazedly against the opposite wall, holding a hand over his eye.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don was walking up to the building entrance when three men burst through it; the first two wearing janitorial garb, and the third wearing tan coveralls. He froze and his hand went automatically for his weapon as he assessed the situation. Sithman recognized him immediately, and yelled as he passed, jabbing a finger back at the entrance. They didn't need an FBI agent on their tail. "We're NSA! Someone attacked Dr. Eppes – he needs an ambulance!"

That was all it took to make up Don's mind. Vaguely, in his subconscious, he realized that there was evidently some kind of pursuit in progress, but it appeared that it was being handled by NSA personnel. Not that it mattered; as the words attack and ambulance were spoken in conjunction with his brother's name, all reasonable thought flew out the window, and he sprinted for the door.

As he turned down the hallway that led to his brother's office, he could see Millie and Amita helping a dazed Larry to his feet. He was down the hall in a flash, and as he reached them he yelled in a voice harsh with fear, "Where's Charlie?"

They looked at him, confusion on their faces, and he didn't stop, sliding as he hit the corner into the shorter hallway, and dashed toward Charlie's office. As he entered it, he saw a man bending over his brother, who was laying on the floor, unresponsive, his eyes closed. Unconscious; or worse. Don's heart clenched; and suspicion roared through him as he took in the man in the tan coveralls. He realized with a slight shock that he still had his service weapon out, and he leveled it at the man, barking, "Back away! Hands in the air!"

Caldwell stood; his hands up, and backed away slowly, as Millie, Amita and Larry appeared in the doorway behind Don. "I'm NSA, Agent Eppes," said Dan, his eyes locked on Don's. "I'm part of a protection detail for Charlie. I called 911." He indicated a syringe lying on the floor with a nod of his head. "He's unconscious, apparently drugged. If he were awake, he would tell you who I am."

Don's eyes flickered to the syringe, and he felt new stab of alarm. God only knew what they had given his brother. He wanted desperately to be at his side, but he needed assurance that this man was who he claimed to be. He looked at Caldwell, his gun still leveled at him. The man apparently knew who he was. "Let's see ID."

Millie, Amita and Larry watched the proceedings, their mouths open in shock. Caldwell slowly brought a hand down and unzipped the front of his coveralls, reaching inside just as slowly. "I'm Dan Caldwell, NSA," he said quietly. A siren sounded in the distance. He pulled out his ID, and Don crossed the floor and snatched it from him. It looked legit; the picture matched. Hell, the picture looked like him. He handed it back to Caldwell with a scowl, and whirled and knelt at Charlie's side.

Charlie was lying on his back, completely out. Don felt for a pulse and to his great relief, found it to be steady. He frowned as he picked up the syringe, and noted the broken needle.

Caldwell's voice came from behind him. "It looks like he put up a hell of a struggle."

Don's eyes turned back to Charlie, and he eased off his brother's jacket. He found the rest of the needle buried in Charlie's forearm, sitting in the middle of a pea-sized hole that had been torn in the struggle. Blood dripped down the arm, and Don pressed on Charlie's arm above the wound, trying to slow it. He looked back up at Caldwell, anger on his face. "What in the hell happened?"

Millie finally found her voice, and stepped into the room, followed by Amita and Larry. "That's what I'd like to know. This is a college campus – my professor was attacked in his office. I certainly hope there's an explanation." Amita and Larry eased around her, both of them staring, stunned, at the sight of Charlie's unconscious body. They knelt on the other side of it, across from Don, and Amita gently took Charlie's lifeless hand. The siren reached a crescendo; then suddenly stopped. A tiny red flashing light reflected in the windows, evidence of the ambulance across the quad in the parking lot.

Caldwell's face was carefully neutral, but they could see chagrin in his eyes. "My partner and I were assigned to a protective detail for Dr. Eppes," he repeated.

"Well, you're doing a hell of a job," Don interrupted him, his voice rough and angry, dripping with sarcasm.

Caldwell grimaced slightly and continued. "Two men dressed as janitors came into his office just moments ago. It looks like a kidnapping attempt. My partner gave chase, and I came in to try to assist Dr. Eppes." He broke off and looked toward the doorway. "Someone should go out in the hall, and direct the EMT's."

"I'll go," said Millie firmly.

Caldwell looked at her, and then at Don. "If anyone asks, the word should be that Dr. Eppes became ill. We need to avoid publicity, and any mention of an attack."

Millie stared at him, then at Don, and shook her head, heading for the door. Don looked again anxiously at Charlie, and felt once more for the reassuring blip of his pulse, then looked back at Caldwell, his eyes narrowed. "We need to talk later," he said coldly. "I need to know what this is about."

The voices of the EMT's in the hallway gave Caldwell an excuse not to respond. Instead, he looked toward the doorway. There was no way in hell that Agent Eppes would be given that information, he knew. And he certainly wasn't going to be the one to give it to him. He didn't even know; himself.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don stared at the unconscious form in the hospital bed. Charlie looked peaceful, for the world like he was sleeping. He looked young and almost absurdly innocent; no one in his right mind would think that here was a man who had secrets, much less secrets that had almost gotten him kidnapped. '_What in the hell have you gotten into?'_ Don thought, for the tenth time. Charlie's blood work had indicated that he had been given a sedative; there was nothing they could do but let him sleep it off.

Don's eyes shifted to his brother's bandaged forearm, then to his father. Alan was seated beside him, oblivious to his gaze, his eyes fixed on Charlie, rubbing his jaw absently, as if he could rub away the tension. Don's eyes flickered to the small narrow window in the doorway. He could see part of Caldwell's profile; the man insisted on maintaining guard outside the room. He was joined by three suspicious FBI agents; Don had called his team after arriving at the hospital, and Megan, David and Colby had taken up their own guard duty when they arrived, eying passersby, hospital personnel, and Caldwell with equal distrust.

His eyes shot back to the sleeping form in the bed as Charlie sighed, and stirred. He blinked sleepily, and both Alan and Don leaned forward. Charlie's eyes shut again, then opened, and as they slowly focused, a slight frown appeared on his face. Just as Alan was about to say his name, he suddenly started, and struggled to sit up, panic on his face.

"Whoa," said Don. "Take it easy." He placed a gentle hand on Charlie's chest, and Charlie lay back against the pillow.

"It's okay, Charlie," added Alan, as his son looked at them with confusion.

Charlie rubbed his eyes, then without warning, sat straight up again, as awareness dawned in his face. "I need my cell phone," he said, his words just slightly slurred.

"You can't have cell phones in here," chided Alan gently.

Charlie scowled impatiently. "I don't care; I need my cell phone." His words were becoming clearer. "The black one." He looked down at his hospital gown, then around for his clothes. He looked up again, agitated, breathing a little heavily, and spoke more loudly. "I need that cell phone!"

Don frowned. "Charlie, relax. Why don't you tell us what's going on?"

Charlie shook his head vehemently. "I can't. Is someone going to get me that phone, or do I have to hunt for it myself?"

It was Don's turn to look impatient, but Alan sighed resignedly and rose from the chair. He stepped over to a corner of the room and returned with a brown paper bag containing Charlie's clothes. Charlie hurriedly began rooting through it, and as he pulled out his jacket, the door opened and Dan Caldwell looked in. Charlie's reaction was unexpected and immediate. "Get him out of here," he demanded, through clenched teeth, his eyes locked on Caldwell's.

Don was on his feet instantly, looking from Charlie to Caldwell. Caldwell looked dismayed. "Dr. Eppes," he began.

"They were in on it," said Charlie angrily. Colby was standing behind Caldwell, listening, and at the words, he moved forward and put a hand on Caldwell's arm.

Dan shrugged it off, impatiently. "Dr. Eppes, what are you talking about?"

Don was moving toward him, suspicion on his face. "You apparently have some explaining to do." Alan stepped closer to the bed, protectively, sensing a fight.

Caldwell shot a glance behind him; then turned forward again. He was sandwiched between Colby and Don, and neither of them looked very friendly at the moment. "I'm sorry," he said tightly, "but I don't know what Dr. Eppes is talking about."

"Like hell you don't!" exclaimed Charlie, his eyes flashing. He looked at Don. "His partner stood there and watched while they held me down, and when they broke the needle in the syringe, he shot me with a dart. I'm telling you, they were in on it."

Caldwell looked stunned. "What?"

Charlie frowned, but his expression looked a little less certain. "You heard me."

Caldwell's gaze wandered to the floor for a second. His mouth was slightly open; he was obviously shocked. Don watched him closely. Caldwell looked up, his face ashen. "Charlie – Dr. Eppes, are you sure?"

Charlie stared back at him, quieted by Caldwell's obvious astonishment. "Yes. Sithman had plenty of time to act. He just stood there and watched. And when they damaged the hypodermic, he pulled a pistol out of his coveralls, and shot me." His hand strayed unconsciously to his neck. Alan frowned, listening to the exchange, still trying to come to grips with the situation his son had been in.

Caldwell looked at Charlie. "I didn't see a dart."

Charlie's eyes flashed with anger. "Well, it must be there somewhere; it hit right here, in my neck."

Now that Charlie had pointed it out, Don could see the red mark in his brother's neck. He scowled at Caldwell, who was staring at the mark. "If Charlie says there was a dart, there was a dart," he said angrily.

Caldwell nodded with resignation. "I'm just having a hard time processing this." He looked at Charlie. "You need to call Bob. For that matter, so do I." His eyes went to Don. "I swear; I was not part of that. I was down the hall when it happened. If Sithwell was in on it-," He broke off and looked at them earnestly. "I really need to call Bob."

Alan looked at Charlie in confusion. "Who is Bob?"

Charlie looked at him doubtfully, but didn't answer. Caldwell spoke again, quietly. "Bob Tompkins, Director of the NSA."

Alan raised his eyebrows. That Bob. "Oh," was his only reply. He stared at Charlie. For God's sake, how had a mathematician become involved in whatever this was?

Charlie looked at Caldwell. "I'm calling him, but not while you're in the room." He looked around at the rest of them. "In fact, not while any of you are in the room. Please leave." He was obviously rattled, and was starting to sound impatient again, and Don saw him clutching a black cell phone. He had apparently found it while they were talking.

Alan looked at his son's set jaw. He knew that expression – had known it since Charlie was three. He rose. "I'm going." He looked at the others. They looked back, then at Charlie, and filed out without a word.

As the door closed, Charlie could hear Caldwell arguing for a chance to make his own phone call. He pushed speed dial one, and waited impatiently while the phone rang.

It was picked up almost immediately. "_Charlie – how are you?" _Tompkins' voice came over the line, filled with concern.

Charlie's jaw tightened, his anger rising. "I've been better. What in the hell is going on here?"

"_Dan told me about the attempt – I'm sorry Charlie – we obviously didn't anticipate that…"_

"Well, one of you did," retorted Charlie, only slightly mollified by the apology. "Sithman was apparently part of it. He was the one who shot me with the tranquilizer."

There was a silence on the other end. "_Charlie, are you sure?"_

'_Why do they keep asking me that?' _thought Charlie, exasperated. He willed his voice to be calm, less accusing. He was talking to the Director of the NSA, after all. "Yes, I'm sure. He watched the whole thing from the doorway."

Silence again. "_Dan is there now?"_

"Yes. Frankly, he seemed just as surprised as you are about it. He's going to call you."

"_Charlie, I'm not sure what to tell you right now. I've known that my organization is compromised – but it's far worse than I suspected. You can trust Dan, but right now, I can't tell you who else in my organization you can trust. I need to regroup, but in the meantime we need to get you some security." _There was a short silence again; then Tompkins spoke once more.

"Just a minute," Charlie replied, frowning, as he heard the request. He slipped from the bed, and grabbed hold of it as a sudden wave of vertigo washed over him. The room righted in a matter of seconds, and giving his hospital gown a tug to make sure he was covered, he padded to the door, a bit shakily. He opened it, and several pairs of eyes rested on him in surprise. He found the pair that belonged to his brother and spoke quietly. "Don." As Don stepped forward to the doorway, Charlie held up the phone. "It's for you."

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 6


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Paulson sat in his study, cell phone to his ear, cold fury on his face. Sithman spoke from the other end. "_We're at the hospital now. I've got a man up on the floor, but there's too much security. Agent Eppes has his whole team there."_

Paulson ran a hand over his face in aggravation. "All right," he said. "We need to come up with something else. Keep your man there; have him let us know if the situation changes. I'll get back to you." He hung up, jabbing at the cell phone keypad angrily. The job had just been complicated beyond reckoning; security around Dr. Eppes would be heightened, and he had just lost his inside man. Sithman was useless now in that capacity.

He dialed, and the phone was picked up after two rings. _"You have him?"_

Paulson gritted his teeth. "There was a complication. They had to abort the mission in the middle of it. Dr. Eppes was sedated, but they couldn't extract him. He is now at the hospital."

There was silence for a moment; then the voice spoke, irately. "_That is unacceptable."_

Paulson fought down a surge of anger. Who did that Iranian bastard think he was talking to? With an effort he controlled his response, his voice cold. "I agree. The team is at the hospital now. We will come up with another plan."

The voice on the line was just as icy. "_Your team is inept. You will pull them off. My people will handle this. There is too much at stake here for this kind of error."_

Paulson opened his mouth to retort angrily, but the line clicked dead. He snapped the phone shut, furiously, and sat there for a moment, seething. Fine, he thought as his head cooled. Let them try. He would stand by to pick up the pieces when they failed.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don sat in Charlie's living room and regarded his team. It was 11:00 p.m.; Charlie was upstairs in his bedroom, already working furiously his laptop, which Caldwell had brought with him from Charlie's office. Charlie had refused the doctor's advice that he remain in the hospital for the night, and the doctor had reluctantly released him A.M.A. Dan Caldwell sat with them, and Alan had retreated to the kitchen, trying to alleviate his anxiety by making sandwiches.

"We've been reassigned as a protection detail for Charlie for the next couple of days," said Don. "Tompkins cleared it with Merrick. Apparently the NSA has some security issues." Their gazes flickered briefly toward Caldwell. Don took in their glance, and continued. "Dan Caldwell has Tompkins' endorsement. He will be our main contact with Washington, and will be part of the security team."

David frowned. "Shouldn't we be putting Charlie in a safe house?"

Don grimaced. "Unfortunately, this is it for the next two nights. It doesn't make sense to use the NSA houses; they are probably known to whoever is behind the attempt. Ours are occupied right now; they're housing federal witnesses for a major trial in Denver. Tompkins is arranging for a private jet Wednesday morning; he'll have a safe place for Charlie in Washington set up by then. For tonight and tomorrow, this is the safe house."

Caldwell spoke quietly. "We aren't dealing with an attempt on his life. They apparently want him alive for some reason. A kidnapping is harder for them to pull off; and easier for us to defend."

'_Amen to that,' _thought Megan_. 'If they had wanted to kill Charlie, they would have done it in his office. We wouldn't be sitting here right now.'_ The idea sent a chill down her spine, and she could see from the look on Don's face that he was having the same thoughts.

"We'll need to set up some plans for tomorrow," continued Don. "Charlie has insisted that he has to be at CalSci. They have an event planned for their financial backers; I guess it's pretty important. Charlie has presentations to give during the day, and a black tie reception tomorrow night. From a risk standpoint, it's relatively low. All of the events involve large groups of people. It's unlikely they will try anything there. In addition, there will be extra security on campus, plus two senators will have their security people present. All of that will play to our advantage. We need to be more concerned about movements between here and there."

He leaned forward and spread a map of Pasadena out on the coffee table, and they gathered around. Don had set up surveillance outside the house. Neither the group inside, nor the outside surveillance teams were aware of the figures that had crept onto surrounding property, and were watching the house from the cover of darkness.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

It was late afternoon as Charlie shook hands with the last group, a CEO of a major aircraft company and his staff, and they walked away, the head of the company's engineering department talking eagerly to the CEO, who was nodding. Millie stood at the door to the lecture hall waiting for them, and they stopped to talk.

The last presentation had gone well, Charlie thought, and he picked up his materials and sat wearily in a chair at the front of the hall, with just a passing glance at Colby and David sitting in the back row. His eyes caught Amita and Larry heading toward him; they had been busy with presentations and meetings of their own, and he hadn't seen them all day. Millie had mentioned that they had witnessed the happenings of the night before, and Charlie tensed slightly, anticipating questions he wasn't allowed to answer.

As they approached, he looked at Larry in surprise. His friend was sporting what looked like a black eye; it _was_ a black eye, he realized as Larry drew closer. Charlie rose to his feet, concern on his face. "What happened to you?"

Larry smiled, looking oddly apologetic. "Apparently one of your attacker's hands appeared in the same space-time continuum as my face," he said ruefully.

Amita added, "We were headed toward your office – they ran between us on the way out."

Charlie looked stunned. He hadn't realized that his attackers had come so close to them. He felt a chill run through him, as he realized that the outcome of yesterday's attack could have been much worse. He had put his friends in danger. "Larry, Amita, I'm sorry," he stammered.

Larry shook his head and held up his hand. "Compared to what happened to you, it's minor, I assure you. The real question is; how are you doing?"

Charlie stared back for a moment, his mind still reeling. He gathered himself with an effort. "Okay. A little tired." He changed the subject. "How did your presentations go?"

"Good, I think," said Amita brightly, although her eyes studied him with concern. "Yours?"

Charlie nodded wearily, as Millie approached. "Good."

"Wonderful," Millie enthused, correcting him. "We wowed them, every single one. All of you are to be congratulated." They turned and headed up the aisle, and David and Colby rose quietly from their seats.

Millie fell in beside Charlie. "How are you holding up?" she murmured.

"Okay," he shrugged. Considering what he had gone through last evening, remarkably okay. Maybe too okay. He was more concerned about getting back to his laptop, and the code, than any thing else.

She spoke again, her voice low, her eyebrows raised. "You realize I was just kidding about the James Bond thing. I didn't intend for you to take it that seriously."

Charlie looked at her in surprise; then realized that she was half-teasing. He smiled back with just a hint of sarcasm. "Don't worry. Believe me, I can do without it."

She looked at him, concern in her eyes moderating her smile. "You have a few hours before the evening events start. Go home, get some rest. We'll try to get you out of here early tonight."

They stepped out of the lecture hall into the hallway, and she moved forward to talk to Larry. Amita drifted back next to Charlie, and they paused for a moment, talking.

David and Colby hung back, waiting. Charlie and Amita were halfway down the hall, and they could see Megan and Caldwell at the other end. David shook his head. "Did you notice how much Caldwell looks like Don, or is it just me?"

"Nah, I noticed," said Colby. "It's kind of freaky. I need to keep looking twice, especially when he's far away like that."

David's voice was soft. "This whole thing's freaky."

"You got that right." Everything about the situation raised an alert as far as Colby was concerned. There was something big going down. His eyes narrowed, and he let his gaze rest on Charlie, his expression thoughtful. Definitely, something big.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Paulson stepped out at lunch time, drove downtown, and walked to a deserted alley, his shoulders hunched against the cold. He pulled out the cell phone, almost reluctantly, and dialed his contact. It rang four times, and he almost thought it was going to voice mail. "_To hell with him_," he thought; then the phone was answered.

"_Yes?_"

"I found out something that may be useful to you," said Paulson coolly. His eyes traveled, scanning his surroundings, as he talked. "A small government jet has been arranged for tomorrow morning, at a private airstrip east of Los Angeles, near Woodcrest. It will take Dr. Eppes to Washington. If you wish to take him in L.A., you only have until tomorrow at 10:00. In addition, he is to speak along with Tompkins to a high level panel at the White House tomorrow evening. We are running out of time."

There was a silence on the other end. "_Thank you, my friend; that is useful_." The voice was conciliatory. _"I apologize if I was harsh previously; the news was disappointing. Has there been word that he has found anything more?"_

"No, I'm fairly certain he has not," replied Paulson, slightly appeased by the apology. "I was with Tompkins all morning; he appeared to be acting normally, and made all of his appointments. I would think that if he had found out, he would do neither."

"_Good. However, we need to be sure. I have my team in place, and have brought in an expert on interrogation. Soon we will have our answer. Thank you, my friend. May Allah be with you." _

The line went dead, and Paulson tucked away the phone, and headed back up the street. Soon, Asif would have his answer, and in a few days, Paulson would have his money.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Charlie picked up his sandwich to take a bite, and then set it down, forgotten, staring at the computer screen, his attention suddenly captured by a flash of insight. He had gone straight to his room when he got home, attacking the coded second file with a vengeance. He would rather have worked in the garage, but Don forbade it, saying that Charlie's room upstairs was safer. It didn't matter much; as soon as he sat down he was totally consumed. Three hours had flown by, unnoticed. His father's voice floated in from the hallway. "Charlie, you need to start getting ready for the reception."

Charlie held up a hand as if his father could see it, his eyes still glued to the screen. "In a minute!" He stared; then suddenly attacked the keyboard, typing furiously, and sat back to review the result, watching the decoded information come up on the screen. That was it. He'd done it, he'd… "Oh my God," he whispered, suddenly pale, as he read the decoded file, translating the Farsi in his head. "Oh my God." He stared in shock, then fumbled for the cell phone on the desk, and dialed Tompkins with shaking hands.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don stood at the edge of the reception room with Megan, and threw her a sideways glance. She looked elegant, in a black dress and sparkling, dangling earrings. Her service weapon and badge were stowed in a sleek purse with long strap. She definitely didn't look like someone who could kick your ass, thought Don. He smiled at her. "You clean up pretty good."

She grinned back. "You don't look so bad yourself."

Don shifted uncomfortably in the rented tuxedo. "I've felt better." His eyes roved the reception area. Caldwell and David stood on the other side, and Colby was near an entrance, all of them in tuxes. He could see the security personnel for the senators scattered around the room, and as far as he could tell, Charlie had more security present than either of them. His eyes rested on his brother, talking animatedly to one of the senators, Millie and his father standing alongside, smiling and nodding, enjoying the show. Alan looked pretty good in a tux, thought Don absently.

It had worked out well, Millie inviting his father, he thought. He had planned to leave security at the house, but he felt better with Alan here where he could keep an eye on him personally. Larry wandered up, his blackened eye matching his tux jacket, and smiled at Megan shyly. "You look very nice," he said formally.

She smiled back. "So do you."

Larry blushed furiously. "Oh, I'm afraid the eye rather ruins the effect," he said, touching his cheek.

"Not at all," said Megan, smiling mischievously. "It gives you a sort of dangerous, dashing look."

Larry reddened even further and laughed nervously. "Can I interest you in champagne?" he asked.

"I'm on the job," Megan reminded him gently, "but a soft drink would be nice." She tossed Don a look and he nodded.

His gaze shifted back to his brother as she walked away with Larry, her eyes constantly searching the room. Charlie had stepped away from the senator, and now that he was finished talking, his face had resumed a hint of the look he had worn earlier, when he had come out of his bedroom. Stunned, pale. Scared.

Don's stomach knotted as he remembered it, and remembered how his brother had looked, lying lifeless on the floor of his office, the night before. Suddenly the whole thing; the last two days seemed insane; the attack, this glamorous event with its undercurrent of tension, the fact that he was on his brother's security detail, the fact that his brother _needed_ a security detail. Charlie had just recovered from the horrifying events of last summer; there was no way he should be in this position right now. Damn Tompkins.

His jaw worked as his stomach clenched even tighter in anger, and he kept his eyes carefully on the crowd as Alan walked up, trying to look composed. "Having a nice time?" asked his father facetiously.

"Yeah, great," growled Don. _'I love this blasted tux. I love the way these shoes are pinching my feet. I love the fact that I need to protect my brother from something I know nothing about, because someone in Washington decided he needed to be on an assignment.' _Their eyes followed Charlie as he walked over to Millie, and she introduced him to yet another dignitary. Charlie looked tired, but smiled as he began to speak.

Alan glanced sideways. "Well, I can be certain that no one will try anything with you around. The look on your face would scare anyone away."

Don tried to neutralize his expression. He was supposed to be inconspicuous. He sighed. "This just eats at me," he admitted. "Charlie just got through all of that – stuff – a few months ago. Tompkins had to know about it. You'd think he would have given him a break."

Alan was silent for a minute. He had thought the same thing. He would give anything at the moment for his youngest not to be involved in this, whatever it was. "The only thing I can think of," said Alan softly, "is that they didn't have a choice."

Don looked at him. "That doesn't make me feel a whole lot better. If it's that damn serious…" his voice trailed off as he looked back at Charlie.

Alan sighed. "Tomorrow is what I'm dreading. He'll be on a plane, heading to Washington alone, and we're supposed to rely on them to protect him?" He fell silent, and Don felt a stab of anxiety. He'd been so busy arranging the details of Charlie's protection; he hadn't gotten around to thinking about that. In fact, he still had to line up the van to take Charlie to the airport in the morning. He stepped away from his father, excusing himself, and headed for the hallway, pulling out his cell phone. His mind was still on his father's last comment, and it left a nasty feeling in the pit of his stomach.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Charlie shook hands with the senator and smiled, the smile fading from his face as soon as he stepped away. The implications of what he had found, and the memory of finding it, lurked in the back of his brain, and it was only with an effort that he repressed it. He rubbed his forehead, and as he did, he felt a gentle hand take his arm.

"You look tired," said Amita softly, and as he looked at her, stunning in a black formfitting silk gown, he was jerked back pleasantly into the present.

He smiled. "Not any more."

She smiled back, and pulled him gently toward an exit. "Let's go outside in the hallway for a minute. I need a break from this."

They stepped out quietly and moved halfway down the hall. Colby and David had followed them, and David passed by them quickly and stationed himself discreetly at the other end of the hallway, out of sight around a corner. Charlie looked around for Colby; he had moved the other direction; he was still visible, but had his back toward them. Charlie's back was toward the wall, and he leaned casually against it, as Amita took both of his hands, and stepped toward him, closing the gap between them to nearly nothing.

He smiled at her, but she could see the worry percolating in his eyes. "Everything okay?" she asked.

His smile widened just slightly, and he nodded. "Yeah, just tired." She had the distinct impression that he was lying.

A troubled frown knit her brows. "I'm worried about you."

Charlie shook his head. "Don't be. I've got a lot of people looking out for me." He smiled and lifted himself away from the wall, bringing him face to face with her, and leaned forward. "It's sweet of you to worry, though," he murmured, and brushed her lips with his.

Don stepped into the hallway with his cell phone, and as he glanced down the length of it, he saw Charlie and Amita, and not too far away, Colby's solid reassuring presence. Apart from Colby, they were oblivious to his presence, and he saw Charlie lean forward and lightly kiss Amita. It was followed by a longer one, and Don pulled his eyes away, feeling like voyeur. Suddenly a relationship with Amita seemed the least of his brother's worries. In fact, Don would give anything at the moment for that simplicity; for Charlie to stay here and pursue that relationship; if it meant that his brother wouldn't have to be involved in this matter, whatever it was. He gritted his teeth, and punched in numbers on his cell phone. Damn Tompkins, anyway.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 7


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Alan watched as Charlie came down the stairs, headed over to a small desk tucked in the corner, and rummaged through a drawer. His son had shed his tux and was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. For that matter they all had; Don, Colby and Dan Caldwell were lounging in the living room with him. At night, they had two of Don's team posted downstairs, taking turns; one slept on the sofa while the other kept watch. Last night it had been Megan and David, tonight it was Colby and Dan. Don had slept in his bedroom; or rather, had positioned himself in his bedroom; Alan was sure that his older son hadn't slept much – he had heard him pacing the hallway more than once in the night, nearly silent on bare feet, listening, watching.

Alan knew this because he hadn't slept much either. He could hear the clicking of the keyboard in Charlie's room far into the small hours of the morning. They were all exhausted, and the reception tonight hadn't helped matters. He watched as Charlie plowed through papers in the drawer. "Charlie, why don't you come and sit with us – relax a little."

"I will," said Charlie, his attention still focused on the drawer. "I need to pack first." He pulled a navy booklet from the drawer, shut it, and headed back upstairs without a glance.

Don's eyes followed him, caught by the object in his hand. A passport? What did Charlie need a passport for?

Upstairs, Charlie tucked the passport in the pocket of the blazer he planned to wear in the morning, which hung over a chair. His suitcase was nearly packed, but still sat open, waiting for a few last items. He had a suit neatly tucked in a garment bag. He stood for a moment, and rubbed his face wearily, as if by so doing he could rid himself of the fatigue, and above all, the tension that engulfed him. Eight hours of sleep in the past four days was not enough even for him, and he was beginning to lose concentration, finding it hard even to organize his thoughts enough to pack. He had to get some sleep tonight, he thought; he would never make it through the meeting tomorrow night if he didn't.

The thought of the meeting brought back the dread, the unbearable tension, with a jolt. The knowledge of what he had found lay on him like a suffocating weight. His only consolation was that at least one other person knew also; he had passed on the information and sent the decoded translated file to Tompkins over the secure site before leaving for the reception. Bob had called him back just moments ago, telling him to bring his passport; apparently as soon as they met tomorrow night, Charlie would be on a plane out of the country to who knew where, for his own safety, until they dealt with the problem. '_Problem,'_ he thought to himself with a derisive snort. What an understatement.

He shuffled into the bathroom to pack toiletries, and opened the medicine cabinet. A half empty bottle of Lorazepam stared back at him, and he gazed at it for a minute. After he had ramped down off of the drug back in August, he had been left with a partial prescription. To be honest, he had forgotten about it until now. It could give him relief from the unrelenting tension, the anxiety, he knew. The fact that he was even thinking about it hit him suddenly, and he shuddered and grabbed the bottle, throwing it in the trash. He knew what else it could do; he knew now about his physiological tendency toward addiction, and he vowed he was never going there again. No matter what.

He found his travel kit, and checked the contents, his mind skipping over them haphazardly, and left the bathroom. As he walked out, he could see the prescription bottle in the trash; it sat there like an almost animate presence; and he imagined it looking back at him. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head to clear the image, and nearly ran into his brother in the hallway.

Don looked at him with concern. "You okay?"

Charlie nodded and trudged past him, toward the bedroom. "Yeah." Don followed him in, and watched as Charlie put the travel kit in his suitcase, and zipped it shut. He turned and faced Don, and silence descended.

Don broke it. "You need a passport? What for?"

Charlie looked at him, and Don could see the undercurrent of fear, of tension in his eyes. "I guess I'm taking a little trip after my meeting in Washington tomorrow night."

Don stared at him. "Charlie, what's going on?"

Charlie looked away. "You know I can't tell you that."

Don looked at his brother's profile. "Maybe I should come with you. I can call Tompkins -,"

Charlie turned back to look at him, cutting him off. "No, it's better if you stay. He wouldn't approve it anyway. They're going to need you and your team here." He held Don's gaze, trying to convey what he couldn't tell him.

Don stared back. Real fear was beginning to send its tendrils into his gut. He looked into Charlie's eyes, trying to read them, and saw tension, terror, and a plea – for what? Reassurance? "This is big, isn't it?" he said quietly. He really didn't expect an answer, and wasn't encouraged when he got it.

Charlie looked back at him, his eyes dark with dread. "It's huge," he whispered.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

David pulled the delivery van next to the elevator in the parking garage next to the FBI building and waited. It was 8:00 a.m. The elevator doors opened, and Don came out, his eyes scanning the garage, followed by Charlie, clutching his computer case, then Colby, Dan and Megan. They opened the sliding door of the van and climbed in. Charlie's luggage was already in the vehicle. The back of the van had been stripped and two rows of seats had been put in, facing each other. It was windowless, except for side windows in the front, and two small one-way windows in the back doors. It was used primarily for surveillance and could be outfitted with the equipment needed for listening to wireless conversations and infrared building scanning. Today though, it was being used as a taxi, under the guise of delivery van. David was the only person that could be seen from the outside; he was driving, and wearing a generic delivery uniform. He swept the surrounding area with his eyes, and pulled out.

The van emerged from the parking garage into the L.A. morning, and two pairs of eyes followed it. A cell phone flipped open, and an accented voice spoke into it. "They are away." The speaker listened to be sure his message was received, and snapped the phone shut.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

"I think something's up." Paulson spoke quietly into the cell phone, glancing nervously around him. He was in the alleyway again, freezing his ass off.

Asif replied on the other end. '_Tell me. What do you mean?"_

"It might be nothing," Paulson admitted. "That meeting tonight; it sounds like they're now inviting agency heads to it. I've got a couple of buddies high up at the ATF and the FBI and I've been talking to them – they originally invited their A.D.'s; and now the directors are going. It may be just a precaution – they have been known to overreact. In fact, since they didn't bump up the meeting time, I think that they still don't know the whole picture. It's a change, however, and I thought you would want to know."

There was a momentary silence; then Asif spoke. "_We will know within a few hours, long before the meeting. My team is in place; we will have the doctor shortly. We will find out; then make our decision. I will let you know the outcome."_

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don shifted uncomfortably. It was getting warm in the back of the van; he and Megan were wearing FBI issue windbreakers, and Colby and Dan had FBI flak jackets on. They were outfitted with service weapons, except for Colby and Dan, who carried semi-automatics, with extra ammo. Probably overkill, but better to be safe.

He looked across the van at Charlie. They had been riding for an hour; the airstrip was in an unpopulated section of arid country, well east of L.A. The road was a little rough; Charlie was jostled lightly in his seat. He was wearing a T-shirt, jeans and the blazer Don had seen on his chair last night, and had his computer bag on his lap until they hit the bumpy section. Now he had it clasped to his chest, and it reminded Don suddenly of the way Charlie clutched his bear to his chest when he was small, when he was frightened. The image put an unexpected lump in Don's throat, and he looked away toward the back of the van.

Dan Caldwell was seated toward the back, and he looked out of one of the small windows. "We've got company," he said quietly.

Every head swiveled toward the windows, and Don could see another van behind them, well back. He turned and called up to David. "How long?"

David' eyes were moving back and forth between the road and the side mirror. "About three miles."

Colby spoke. "It may be nothing. It's a two-lane road, and there aren't many turnoffs out here."

Don looked out the windshield at the road ahead. 'No turnoffs' was right; to their left a rocky section rose into cliffs, and on the right, the road dropped off steeply. The stretch ahead of them appeared deserted. He looked back and caught Charlie's gaze; his brother was looking at him for reassurance, his face pale.

He smiled, trying to put his brother at ease. "I'm sure it's nothing, Char-," His words were cut off by a sudden loud impact, the sound of something striking the van sharply.

"They're shooting at us!" yelled Caldwell, and Don immediately reached a hand over and pushed Charlie's head down. Colby and Dan scrambled to take positions at the back of the van, and Dan pushed the muzzle of his semiautomatic through a small hinged opening under the window.

"Drive!" yelled Don to David, as he pulled out his cell phone.

Megan already had hers out and was shaking her head. Her voice jerked as she was jolted by the accelerating van. "I can't get a signal!"

Don had punched in Tompkins' number and hit his dial button, to no avail. "They're jamming the signals! David, try yours!" He heard the report of Dan's semiautomatic, and then suddenly was flung roughly into Charlie as the van screeched to a sudden halt. He regained his balance, and looked out through the front of the van, trying to figure out why they had stopped. Another van was pulled across the road ahead; with the cliffs on one side and the drop off on the other, there was no way around. It was a perfect spot for an ambush.

He had released his grip on Charlie, who sat up, looking stunned and pale, and as he turned back toward him, Dan turned toward them also and opened his mouth to speak, his face tense. He never got the words out; the back window suddenly exploded, and Dan's face with it, as a bullet entered the back of his skull and shot out through the center of his face. The bullet narrowly missed Megan and Don, and buried itself in the back of the passenger seat in front. Dan's body fell forward, blood oozing from under his down-turned face.

Charlie stared, horrified; then he suddenly began fumbling with his computer case, zipping it open with shaking hands. He pulled out two vials, custom-made; one larger and rectangular, the other small. He flipped a catch on the top of the larger one, which released the lid, glancing wildly out of the back window at the figures climbing from the van behind them. He looked with frightened eyes at Don, who was staring at him in shock.

"You can't be my brother," said Charlie shakily, prying the lid off the larger container.

"What?" Don stared at him blankly.

Charlie looked at him, pleadingly. "You need to change ID's with Dan. You need to be Dan."

Understanding dawned in Megan's eyes, as her mind processed what Don refused to. She pushed Dan's body over, and pulled his ID and badge out. "He's right, Don, give me your ID."

Don hesitated, and Colby turned away from the window, where he was watching the figures approach cautiously. "Don, they're right – you need to move."

The lid came off the larger container with a pop, and a small amount of liquid splashed out onto Charlie's hand, between the thumb and forefinger. He hissed in pain, and wiped the back of his hand on the seat, grimacing. The liquid immediately began to dissolve the seat cushion. "Here," said Colby quietly, "let me help you with that." He took the smaller vial, and Charlie handed him a jump drive and the SRA chip, with a panicked glance out of the window.

Don tucked the wallet and ID that Megan handed him in his back pocket mechanically, staring in disbelief at his brother. He could see a hole forming in Charlie's hand, and was dimly aware that Megan was putting his ID in Dan's pockets. He suddenly came to his senses, and looked wildly out of the windows. Figures were approaching with automatic weapons drawn, and he pulled his service weapon. David was turned around, looking back at them, and he and Megan exchanged glances; and she spoke. "Don, you need to put the gun away – there are too many of them." Her eyes conveyed the unsaid words. '_You'll be killed. Don't do that to Charlie.'_

He shook his head in denial as he watched Charlie lower the hard drive into the acid bath, and replace the lid. Colby handed him the other vial, and Charlie clutched them, looking around frantically for a place to put them. He settled on the seat behind him, hastily stuffing them down into the seat cushion. Ignoring the pain in his hand, he snapped another hard drive into the computer, loaded with lesson plans from school. He zipped the case shut and slid it under the seat. As he finished, he looked up, desperation in his eyes, and he focused on his brother, with a silent plea in his face.

Don stared back at him; then laid the gun down, and Colby lowered the automatic weapon, as the van door slid open, and the desert sun shone into the van.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 8


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

"Step out slowly, hands up." The command was delivered in a slight accent. The cold voice belonged to a tall bearded man with black hair, and a small but efficient automatic weapon.

Don squinted as he stepped out into sunlight from the relative dimness of the back of the van, moving slowly, his hands in the air. They were surrounded by men from the rear van, bristling with weaponry, and more were moving toward them from the van to their front. They arrived as Megan emerged from the van, then Charlie, and finally Colby. Two men walked David around from the other side.

One of the men from the front van strode up, exuding authority. "Search them," came his peremptory command, and Don felt hands patting him down. He stole a glance at Charlie; his captor was unnecessarily rough with the search, his hands knocking Charlie slightly off balance, making him adjust his footing to stay upright. Charlie's face was pale and set, but Don could see the fear in his eyes. It matched the terror in his own gut.

He felt the hands pull the ID and wallet from his pockets, and he suddenly wished he'd taken a look at them. He was Dan Caldwell now, and he didn't even know how old he was supposed to be, or where he lived. He watched, his face tense, as Colby's flak jacket was removed.

Charlie's heart was pounding, and his mouth so dry it was difficult to swallow. The commander of the group spoke again, this time in Farsi, and despite his inexperience with spoken Farsi, Charlie was able to make it out well enough to follow what was said.

The man's face was black with anger. "_I said no shooting. Who is the fool who cannot follow orders? The objective could have been killed."_

The group shifted uncomfortably, and Charlie looked at them, waiting for a response, before he realized that he shouldn't be doing that; he shouldn't give them any clue that he understood them. He looked away, and his eyes met Colby's, and the realization hit him that Colby understood them too.

One of the men spoke. "_It will not happen again."_

Wasseen Mahir's eyes narrowed and he spoke again. "_You will all understand that the consequence will be death, to anyone who does not obey an order." _He fixed his gaze on each one of them in turn; then said in English, "Search the van. Quickly. We do not have much time. When you are done, pull it to the side."

Two men began going through it, one of them pulling out Charlie's computer case and luggage and handing it to another man standing by. Yet another guard gathered their cell phones, and placed them on the floor of the van. As the activity commenced, Mahir walked forward and stopped in front of Charlie, looking him up and down. He had a beard and longish dark hair, and reminded Charlie uncomfortably of Mansour.

Mahir spoke to Charlie. "You will come with me."

Don felt a surge of fear, and stepped forward, his hands still in the air, but his face defiant. "I go where he goes." He could see the look of alarm that appeared on Charlie's and Megan's faces, and he ignored them, his eyes fixed on Mahir.

Mahir turned and faced him, his face cold and angry. "You are not in a position to give orders. Be silent." He looked at his men. "Secure them."

Don felt his hands jerked roughly down behind him, and he could feel them being taped tightly together. His jaw worked in frustration. He was pushed sharply and forced back a step or two, and he could see that his teams' hands were being secured also. Everyone's but Charlie's. As the men stepped toward his brother, Mahir shook his head. He looked at Charlie. "You may lower your hands. We are simply looking for information. If you cooperate, no one gets hurt."

Charlie's hands crept down from over his head to his sides, but Don could see the rigidness in his shoulders. His face was still set, but Don could see the telltale swallow, the slight heaving of his brother's chest, that told of the fear inside.

One of the men in the van handed out Don's ID and badge which he had taken from Caldwell, and Mahir took it, glancing at the name. He looked at Charlie, who froze with apprehension. "Your brother. My condolences." _'That is unfortunate,' _Mahir thought to himself_. 'His brother might have proved useful.'_

Charlie breathed a shaky breath of relief as Mahir tossed the ID to one of his men without another glance. It was noticeable; coming out with a shudder, and Colby tensed, looking at Mahir, but Mahir didn't react, apparently taking Charlie's response as repressed grief. He glared at his men in the van, and spoke in sharp Farsi. "_You are taking too long. We need to be gone. Finish what you are doing and join us when you are done_."

He switched to English. "Dr. Eppes will come with me in the first van. The other prisoners go in the second. Leave the third vehicle for the searchers. Move now."

Two guards took Charlie's arms, and began to walk him toward the van, and Don stepped forward with them, grim determination on his face. Mahir stepped in front of him, furious, and the group halted. "Did I not ask you to follow orders?" he barked, his face darkening with anger. "I will not tolerate disrespect."

Don faced him, his eyes cold. There was no way he was letting his brother out of his sight, not if he could help it. He could see the terror and dismay in Charlie's eyes over Mahir's shoulders, and sensed two guards moving up behind him. "My orders are to stay with him."

Mahir turned away with a grimace, almost a smile, on his face, then whipped around suddenly, producing a pistol, and shot. The bullet tore through the fleshy part of Don's upper arm with a spatter of skin and blood, and he staggered, grunting in pain, as he saw Charlie flinch in shock. Don maintained his footing, but listed sideways, panting in agony as Mahir stepped forward and held the barrel of the gun in front of his face. "The next time, it goes into your head," he said softly. His eyes flashed, as he looked up at his men. "Take them."

Don looked at Charlie and saw the plea on his brother's face. '_Please don't. Do what they say,' _said his brother's expression, and he reluctantly let the guards take his arms and push him toward the rear van, as he grimaced in pain, blood running down his arm. The two guards next to Charlie grabbed his arms roughly and forced him the other way, and for a moment, the brothers' eyes locked, before they were spun around and forced apart.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Mahir eyed the tense figure beside him. The professor sat rigidly, his eyes straight ahead. Mahir had separated him from the others more for psychological reasons than for anything else; both vans were going to the same place. For a short period of time the professor would not know that, however, and Mahir intended to test him. "You understand the reason for this," he said to him softly, without preamble.

Charlie's voice was low, but surprisingly, came out steady. "I have no idea."

Mahir tilted his head slightly. "Then let me explain. We simply need to know what you know, and who you have told it to. You may give the information willingly, or we will take it from you. Either way, we will get it."

"I think there must be a mistake," said Charlie. "I don't know what you are talking about. You have the wrong person."

Mahir studied the smaller man's profile, the desperate but determined set of his jaw. Brave, but foolish. Only a fool would invite the pain that he would endure if he refused to talk.

"I don't think so," replied Mahir softly. "But don't worry; we will give you an opportunity to change your mind." He sat back, silently, and allowed the professor time to think, time for the fear to grow in his mind.

He flipped open his cell phone and dialed. When he spoke, it was in Farsi. "_Mohammed. We have him. We are en route to the factory. Our brother in Allah was kind enough to vacate it for our use._" He paused, listening. "_He is not cooperating so far. But he will. Do you want me to notify Paulson?" _

'_Paulson,'_ thought Charlie._ 'Did he say Paulson?' _With the accent, the name had come out sounding like Boleson, but for Charlie was fairly certain Mahir had said Paulson. He stared blankly at his knees, his mind working furiously. The name was familiar; he should know who it was. Paulson, Paulson…

His thoughts were diverted by Mahir's next words. "_Yes. I brought in Mashud Kafa. He is the best. If the professor does not cooperate, he will extract the information from him. Of course. May Allah be with you." _The phone snapped shut with a sharp click, but Charlie could have sworn that the pounding of his heart was louder.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Little more than a half hour after their capture, the van pulled into a parking area in front of a small manufacturing concern. It was a single-story concrete building, set well outside the outskirts of a small town. The landscaping in front of it was rocks, cacti and yucca; the landscaper had made no attempt to battle the arid area, and had bowed to it instead. Desert stretched around them; vacant; desolate.

One of Don's captors had bound his arm, probably more because of the mess it was making rather than any humanitarian impulse. It was a graze, but a nasty one, the furrow was deep and was bleeding copiously, and Don's whole upper arm throbbed. He winced as he climbed awkwardly from the van with his hands behind them, and then his knees went weak with relief when he saw the other van pulled up outside the building. Charlie was here somewhere.

They were led inside the building, which housed a small plastic molding company, and down a short hallway. A door was pushed open that led to the warehousing and shipping area, and Don could see that the first group was already there. Charlie was seated in a chair near a desk, and the others were standing around him. His brother looked uninjured, and Don breathed a sigh of thanks.

Charlie's head turned, and he glanced at them briefly as they were led in, lined up against some storage racks and ordered to sit on the floor. Even from across the large room Don could see the tension in his brother's shoulders. Their guards stepped a few paces away, standing between them and the group around Charlie.

Colby surveyed the group and then did another take, his heart leaping. There was a man that hadn't been with them before, a tall thin man with a gaunt hollow-cheeked face, which was pitted with acne scars and had cruel, heavy-lidded eyes. '_Kafa,' _he thought with a shock, his heart sinking. Mashud Kafa was legendary in the intelligence world, an expert in torture and interrogation. Anyone who had ever worked in intelligence knew of him.

Wasseen Mahir paced slowly in front Charlie, a sneer on his face. A man was working behind him, setting up Charlie's laptop, and running an extension cord to it. Mahir spoke. "My man tells me you are a Jew. Is that not right, Abdullah?"

The man called Abdullah was a younger, studious looking man. He replied. "He is a Jew, but he is not observant."

Mahir's eyes narrowed. "A Jew; and an infidel. So I should not be surprised when you lie to me."

Charlie was silent. Mahir scowled at him. "Tell us what you have been working on."

Don could feel his heart thumping painfully, in time with the throbbing in his arm. He glanced at Colby, to his left, and was not reassured. Colby looked sick, his face drawn.

"I'm a math professor," replied Charlie, trying to look confused. "I work on research projects for the university."

"I refer to your project for the NSA," said Mahir, quietly. He bent and placed his face directly in front of Charlie's, his voice ominous in its softness. "Tell us about it. What have you found?"

Charlie stared back at him. For a brief moment his vision wavered, and it was Mansour's face in front of him. He swallowed, and the vision cleared. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Mahir straightened suddenly, and struck Charlie with a vicious backhand to the face, so hard that it nearly knocked Charlie from the chair. Don tensed, and felt Colby lean into him, trying to transmit a warning to stay still. Charlie slowly sat upright, his head ringing.

"Liar!" hissed Mahir. He stepped back, allowing Charlie access to the computer, which had been set up, and the password screen opened. "Log on to your computer."

Charlie hesitated, then pulled the chair forward and put in his password. The CalSci web page came up. He entered a logon ID and his personal page appeared. Mahir watched him, his eyes resting idly on the open sore on Charlie's hand.

Charlie clicked on an icon, revealing a file directory. "These are all of my files," he said. "You are welcome to look at them. Much of this is confidential – research projects for the university. You will see; however, there is nothing for the NSA."

Mahir jerked his head toward the computer impatiently, and Abdullah stepped forward. His fingers clicked on the keyboard with practiced ease, and he started a search function. After a moment, he shook his head and looked at Mahir. "Nothing."

The warehouse door opened, and the men that had been assigned to search the FBI van entered. Mahir ignored them, his eyes on Charlie. "Where is the information? I know that you were traveling to Washington to participate in a meeting on this subject." He turned to one of his men. "Search his luggage."

One of the newly arrived men spoke. "There is no need." He held up the two containers that Charlie had used to destroy the hard and jump drives. Chunks of dissolving plastic and electronic components floated in them. "The information was destroyed." At the sight of the containers, Charlie's heart plunged, and he looked away, trying vainly to hide his expression.

Mahir's eyes flashed and he strode over to Charlie, grabbing his hand and looking at the telltale burn mark on it. He flung the hand roughly aside. "Now, what do you have to say, infidel? Since the information now only exists in your head, you will need to talk to us. You are fooling no one. I am giving you one more chance – tell us what you know."

Charlie shook his head; an odd combination of resignation and desperation on his face. "I don't know anything."

Mahir, furious, lifted his arm to strike him again; then stopped himself. "Very well, professor. You cannot say we did not give you a chance." He turned to Kafa. "He is yours. Take him."

Kafa stepped forward, as two men grabbed Charlie's arms and lifted him from the chair. Don watched, in fear and disbelief, and Charlie's eyes connected with his, just briefly. He could see the terror in them, and something else. Charlie held the gaze for just a split second. '_He's trying to tell me something_,' thought Don. He frowned, trying to make it out, but Charlie looked away.

Kafa spoke in Farsi; his voice strange and harsh sounding. "_Take him to the other room. I am ready for him."_

The men forced Charlie toward the door, and Mahir walked over to Don and his team. He eyed them for a moment; then spoke to their guards. "Bind their feet." The guards produced duct tape, and began taping David's ankles. Mahir looked at them. "If any of you have information, now would be the time to give it. You will save your colleague much agony."

Don thought wildly. Maybe he could make something up – anything to delay them. But what? He had no idea of what this was about.

Mahir waited, but got no response. "No? So be it." He turned on his heel and walked quickly toward the door. Don watched him go, so steeped in despair that he barely noticed the men taping his ankles. He stared numbly at the floor as the door slowly closed behind Mahir, and bowed his head.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Tompkins sighed and rubbed his eyes wearily. The previous night had been a long one. After Charlie's phone call, he immediately called the President. An emergency meeting had been arranged, including Pentagon officials, state officials, and the directors of the other federal law enforcement agencies. Noticeably absent was anyone from the NSA other than Tompkins; he had no idea how widespread the corruption was in his agency, and he no longer trusted anyone other than his immediate reports and a handful of agents, one of which included his son-in-law.

His communication of the threat was met with disbelief, then fear. The FBI and ATF were given the task of identifying teams in their organizations with proper clearances to deal with the situation, and the group agreed to meet again the following night, at the time Tompkins had originally set. The intent was to go over their progress and to alleviate any lingering doubts that this was indeed real, by having Charlie explain his findings.

His phone rang, and he picked it up, answering absently. "Tompkins."

"_Sir, this is Bill Jackson. We have a little problem. The consultant that we were supposed to pick up hasn't gotten here yet."_

Tompkins frowned. Bill Jackson was the agent he had sent along with the plane to accompany Charlie to Washington. "Did you try to reach him?"

"_Yes, sir, I tried all of the numbers you gave me. Caldwell's, Dr. Eppes,' and his brother's."_

Tompkins felt a frisson of uneasiness streak through him. "Okay, hold tight. I'm going to call Assistant Director Merrick and have him do a GPS trace on the phones. I'll call you back."

He hung up and stared at the phone for a minute. There was a GPS chip in the computer hard drive; he'd have them trace that also. He dialed Merrick, his uneasiness growing as the phone rang.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 9


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Mashud Kafa studied the slight man in front of him. They had moved the subject to another room, and he stood, surrounded by Mahir's men. He had some information on Professor Eppes; he had had Abdullah, Mahir's man, profile him. Kafa liked to have some background knowledge, if possible, on the people that he dealt with. Quite possibly, this would be the most brilliant mind he had ever worked with, although it wouldn't be the first time that he had tortured a scientist or an academic. He viewed his task as working with the mind; the things that he did to the body, the physical pain that he inflicted, were only a means to get to the mind.

The trick was to bend the mind into submission, without breaking it. It was risky; there were cases where a victim had broken and had still had enough mind left to deliver the information, but in some cases, the mind was too far gone to be of any use. In other cases, the body went first, overcome by pain and shock, which also was not a desirable outcome. It was a fine line, he needed to tread carefully, and each subject was different.

Intelligence had no discernable effect as far as he could tell; some brilliant minds cracked quickly, while others were unbelievably strong. His task would be complicated by the fact that he only had a few hours.

He could see fear on his subject's face; Dr. Eppes had a very expressive face, and appeared to have a hard time hiding his emotions. That also told Kafa nothing; he had seen obviously terrified men go to their deaths before talking, while others gave up information out of sheer terror, before the torture even began.

He eyed Dr. Eppes coldly, and spoke in Farsi to his men. "_Remove his clothing."_

This move was psychological; it never failed to have some effect. It also facilitated access to the body, for the administration of the torture.

Charlie blinked at the statement, and tried to control his reaction. Their assumption that he didn't understand them was the only tenuous advantage that he had left. Still, as they approached him and grasped his arms, he felt a surge of panic that vanquished reason, and he struck out wildly, struggling, kicking, as they attempted to subdue him. He ended up on the floor, landing kicks and punches that made his attackers swear. One of them lashed out angrily, and as they held Charlie's arms, he pounded his fist into Charlie's ribs viciously. Charlie heard cracking noises, and the breath was driven out of him.

He lay there stunned, gasping for breath like a landed fish, and dimly heard the sharp rebuke from Kafa, as the hands pulled at his clothing. Restraints went on his wrists, much like leather handcuffs, and he was dragged to his feet.

The room they were in was the manufacturing floor; it housed injection molding machines; large cumbersome presses capable of producing the tons of pressure needed to close the tools that molded plastic parts. Those tools weighed hundreds of pounds; large blocks of steel as big as television sets. They were lowered into the presses by an overhead crane that traveled in a track in the ceiling, from which hung a large hook. The men pulled the crane over, and lifted Charlie, hanging his manacled wrists from the hook, his feet dangling a few inches from the floor.

Kafa stepped over to a table littered with tools, and Charlie's gaze followed him. He realized with a shock that those were not tools used in the factory; they were instruments intended for him, and his stomach contracted. His mind turned desperately; he needed to find some way to get through this without breaking. '_Focus. Think about your psychotherapy sessions, about the methods Dr. Michaels gave you for combating panic. Find something that calms you, that gives you strength, and focus on it._'

In the past, he had used a mental vision of the koi pond, but as he watched Kafa pick up a small lead pipe, he had a sudden sick feeling that the koi pond was not going to cut it. Not for this. Terror surged through him – not because of the impending pain, which was frightening enough – it was the fear that he would be weak, that he would give in. '_Focus. Focus. On what?_' he thought desperately.

Kafa walked over to him, faced the group of men around them, and spoke in Farsi. "_I will demonstrate the technique, and you will assist. Keep in mind that the intent is to deliver pain with minimal damage; you do not need to hit hard." _He looked meaningfully at the man who had punched Charlie in the chest. "_The less physical damage you inflict, the longer the subject will last. You will strike designated points on the body – here, here, here…" _

Kafa used the lead pipe to point – at Charlie's ankle bone, shin; the side of the knee, the hip bone, the elbow area – all of them areas where the skin was thin; where nerve endings were prominent. As he pointed, his eyes picked up the scars on Charlie's ankles and chest, and he paused for a moment, studying them. "_Interesting," _he thought. Had his subject been tortured before? He gaze turned speculative and his eyes met Charlie's. "You have the opportunity to stop this at any time, Dr. Eppes, including now. Is there anything you wish to tell us?"

Charlie's breathing quickened and his chest heaved, his cracked ribs expanding and contracting painfully. "I told you, I don't know anything," he managed.

Kafa stepped forward, and struck his ankle bone with a quick sharp blow. It hurt, but not as badly as Charlie had expected. Kafa followed with blows to the other points; Charlie flinching a little with each of them, but it was not unbearable. Maybe he could handle this.

Kafa turned toward the men, who were picking up pipes, reverting again to Farsi. "_You see the technique. You do not need to hit hard. Repetition is the key."_

Charlie closed his eyes as they approached, willing himself not to tremble. As the blows began, he started to realize what Kafa had meant about repetition. The repeated blows in the same areas began to stimulate the nerve endings, and it wasn't long before the pain began to magnify. He gasped as it grew, searching for a focus point with new panic. His eyes opened, and he found himself looking at Mahir, who stood coldly observing. He closed them again, and as the agony increased, his thoughts became disjointed. Mahir's face floated in his mind; transforming into Mansour's, and back again.

'_Focus!' _He desperately needed a focal point; he was writhing now, cries of pain bursting from him unbidden. From somewhere inside of him, he pulled a new image into his mind to replace the other faces – his brother's, smiling at him, like he had when they had talked at the park. He latched onto it like a life raft, and clung to it with all his might.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Merrick punched at the phone and raised the receiver to his ear. At Tompkins' voice, he spoke, tension making his voice abrupt. "Bob. We've got a GPS location on the van, and I've got people on the way out. It does appear to be a dead area between cell towers." Merrick was clinging to the hope that it had been a simple vehicle breakdown, and the phones didn't work because of the dead zone. It was a slender hope, he knew. His agents were resourceful; if it had been that simple, they would have stopped a passing vehicle and at least one of them would have gotten a ride to where they could call in.

Tompkins frowned on the other end. "How long will it take them to get there?"

"It's a little over an hour, about halfway to the airstrip. The local PD could get there earlier, but I'm assuming you wanted to keep this limited to as few people as possible. The men I sent have fairly high clearance."

"Right. Okay." Tompkins rubbed his forehead. _An hour. Damn._ "What did you get the GPS location from?"

"The phones," replied Merrick. "The computer GPS didn't show up."

Tompkins frowned. There were only two possible reasons for that. Either the GPS chip was malfunctioning, or the hard drive had been destroyed. The first reason gave him hope; the second made him fear the worst. "All right. Thanks, Walt. Call me as soon as you hear from them."

"You've got it." Merrick hung up the phone, and stared at it absently, his brow furrowed. He knew what was at stake; he had been briefed by his director the night before, and had been told to choose a team that he could trust to handle the pending mission in L.A. At the moment, that team was missing. He had at least partial knowledge of the information that Charlie was carrying, and he had a bad feeling about this.

He picked up the phone again and dialed. "Jim, did that Denver witness vacate the safe house? Okay, listen, I need to arrange for another occupant. Yeah. Alan Eppes. No, I'll talk to him myself. Just line up the move. Thank you."

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

"_Enough_." Kafa spoke in Farsi as the man drove the last wedge under the subject's toenail. The thin wood strips protruded from each toe, and blood dripped to the floor. Dr. Eppes had stopped screaming moments ago, and was on the verge of losing consciousness, his head drooping, his eyes rolling back in his head. They had gone on from the pipes to several other instruments, administered by Kafa himself, and finally to the wedges. Dr. Eppes had proved remarkably resistant, and they had made no headway.

Mahir objected. "_We do not have much time. They will be looking for us. We need to continue_."

Kafa did not even bother to look at him as he replied. "_You can see for yourself he is on the verge of shock. If we continue we will kill him. He needs some time to recover." _He spoke to the men_. "Take him down." _

As the men lifted Charlie from the hook, he turned to Mahir. "_I have put a camera in the room with the captives, and there is a microphone in the racks behind them. We will put him back in with them and vacate the room. Possibly we will learn something from their conversation while he recovers."_

Charlie groaned as he was laid on the floor. His senses were in overdrive; the lights seemed unnaturally bright, and he closed his eyes. Each tiny movement sent spears of pain through him. The voices too, seemed unbearably loud, and he wished he could close his ears. Their words echoed in his mind, and as his brain slowly processed the Farsi, he latched on to some of them. Microphone. Camera. Conversation…

Mahir frowned. "_Very well. Put some clothes on him then. Even though they are infidels, we must follow our teachings. It is not proper that a woman should see a man naked_."

Kafa nodded. Clothing would hold water, which would facilitate the next phase of the torture.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don and his team had passed the time in relative silence. It was Colby who had noticed the camera on the far wall. He had scooted around and turned his back to it so his lips couldn't be read, and speaking in a whisper, warned the others not to talk. Not that Don wanted conversation. They were of absolutely no use to his brother, bound and helpless. There was little they could do, other than to miserably count the seconds. As the time dragged on, Don's feelings of terror and helplessness were intensifying, building to an unbearable pressure, until he thought he would explode.

As the door opened all of them looked up, and Don's heart plummeted as he saw Charlie being dragged across the floor, the throbbing in his arm forgotten. Charlie was wearing his jeans and his shirt, but was barefoot. He heard David's voice, low in his ear. "Easy, Don."

The men were holding Charlie's arms, allowing his legs to drag, and his head hung from his neck. They deposited him in front of the group, then turned without a word and left the room. Charlie's hands were held together by leather restraints, and he twisted slightly, curling into a fetal position, his eyes closed. His face was contorted with agony, and his breathing labored. Don could see no marks other than deep purple, nearly black bruises near his elbows, but his brother was obviously in severe pain. He tried to claw down the fear rising in him. "Charlie," he whispered.

At a soft exclamation from Colby he looked up. Colby was looking at Charlie's feet, and Don realized with a shock that they were bleeding. He could see something protruding from the toenails, and his stomach lurched. Colby had scooted down, and positioned himself with his back to Charlie, twisting his bound hands, and largely by feel, began to pull the items out of his toes. They looked like small wedges, and as he pulled Charlie twisted and moaned. "Sons of bitches," swore Colby. "Tell him to stay still."

Charlie's eyes opened, mere slits of pain, and he groaned, trying to twist away. "Charlie, lie still," said Megan softly. "Just breathe. Colby will be done in a second."

Somehow the words registered; Charlie lay there with his eyes half open, panting; wincing as the last of the wedges were removed. It was an improvement; his toes were sore and throbbing, but they no longer felt as though they were on fire. With his last bit of strength he looked for his brother, and as his eyes met Don's, Don shifted, scooting closer. Charlie's eyes drifted shut as he felt the contact of Don's hip against his leg, and spent, he lay there, just breathing.

Megan took a look at Don's face, and decided it was a good thing that his hands were bound. There was no question in her mind that if they were free, Don would have his arms around his brother, whether it gave him away or not. She looked at the other agents, and began to scoot closer to Charlie, moving, like Don, to rest her hip lightly against him. Colby gave a slight nod of appreciation; she was trying to keep Don from sticking out of the group by mimicking what he did. Colby did the same, moving up close to Charlie's back. David scooted in also, not quite touching but close. They huddled together, forming a protective group around the brothers, trying to do what they could, and knowing it was not enough.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 10


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Tompkins pounced on the phone as soon as it rang, holding his hand up to interrupt the conversation he was holding with Jeff Paulson. "Yeah, Walt, what d'you have?"

Merrick's voice came over the line, and Tompkins could hear the strain in it. "_It's bad, Bob. It was a definite set-up. We found "Road Closed" signs posted at either end of the ambush site, and we found the van pulled over on the side of the road – they're all gone except for one dead agent. From the looks of it, it's either Don Eppes or Caldwell – there was no ID on the body, and the bullet went through the face. They couldn't ID the body on site. They're getting prints."_

Tompkins sat speechless for a moment, his heart plunging. Paulson's eyes narrowed as he watched his director's face, looking for a clue as to what the conversation was about. Tompkins was definitely shaken by the news he had just received, whatever it was.

Tompkins found his voice. "Walt, do me a favor – tell your guys to look for a wedding ring and a scar on the right forearm. Also, any sign of a computer, or vials – there may be vials containing an acid bath."

Paulson's heart quickened. They were talking about the Eppes abduction – they had to be. He knew it had taken place; he had gotten the call from Asif earlier.

"_Hold on," _came Merrick's reply_. "I've got them on the other line."_

"Yeah, okay. I'm holding." Tompkins rubbed his forehead with a shaking hand.

Paulson waited a moment; then spoke. "Anything I can help you with?" he murmured.

Tompkins shook his head, and opened his mouth to reply, then stopped abruptly and spoke into the phone instead. "Yeah, Walt, I'm here."

"_Yeah, we've got a ring and the scar. It's Caldwell. I'm sorry, Bob.  
_

Tompkins closed his eyes, his face drawn with grief. "Aw, Jesus." _'Dear God – Becky – how am I going to tell Becky?'_

Merrick's voice came over the line again. "_No computer, no vials. The van was emptied out except for the cell phones."_

Tompkins gathered his thoughts with an effort. He had a job to do; his duty to his country came first. He cleared his throat. "Go ahead with your fingerprint check for verification, and then have the body sent back to Washington. I'm going to call our imaging department and have our guys draw up some satellite images of the area over the past few hours, see if we can get some info. Even at top speed, it'll probably take a couple of hours. In the meantime, get hold of your ATF counterpart and get a team together."

At Merrick's response, he covered the receiver and looked at Paulson. "I'm sorry, Jeff, I'm going to have to cut our meeting short. Stay available, I may need you for something."

Paulson rose. "Of course. Just let me know." He left the room, trying not to appear hurried. He needed to call Asif and tell him that his people had three hours at most before they had to move.

Tompkins put the phone back to his ear, in time to hear Merrick say, "_Bob, I'm sorry; I know this is hard, but I think we ought to list the dead agent as Don Eppes, for his own protection, in case the captors have links into our organizations. If word got back to them somehow…"_

Tompkins tried to gather his reeling thoughts. "No, you're right, Walt. Proceed with the checks like I told you, but get the official word out that it's Eppes that went down. Keep me posted. I have to make a few calls." At Merrick's affirmative, he hung up, and placed his head in his hands.

After a moment, he reached for the phone again, swallowing the lump in his throat. His fingers paused over the keys. Protocol for a matter of this magnitude dictated that he call the President on any new development before he acted, but he knew that the phone call and the resulting conversation with the President's staff on the other end would add at least forty-five minutes to the effort to retrieve Dr. Eppes; time that they didn't have. '_Damn protocol,_' he thought. He punched in the number for the imaging department.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don watched anxiously, as Charlie's eyes flickered open. Over the past half hour his brother's breathing had slowed and become more even, and his color had returned slightly. He had been brought into the room on the verge of shock, but seemed to be recovering, although Don could still see lines of pain in his face.

Charlie shifted, trying to turn onto his back. Turned sideways, his weight was putting pressure on his broken ribs and bruised hip bone. As some of the general pain receded and full consciousness returned, he had become more aware of the pain in those areas. He twisted, and managed to ease onto his back, with a sharp intake of breath at the stab of pain in his ribs.

"Where does it hurt?" asked Don, in a low voice.

Charlie grimaced and shook his head, and looked up at him, whispering. "Need to talk quietly – there's a microphone."

Colby whispered back. "Where?"

"Racks," whispered Charlie. His eyes found Don's again, and Don again got the impression that Charlie had something to say, something he wanted to tell him, but his brother's gaze flickered toward the camera, and he was silent. A long moment passed, quietly, then all of them tensed, and their heads turned at the sound of the door.

Mahir and Kafa walked toward them, followed by some of their men. They had been watching and listening to the digital feed and trying to catch the conversation, to no avail. The microphone was sensitive, but was not able to pick up the whispers. They could determine from the camera, however, that their subject was awake, conscious enough to continue.

Don shifted to his knees, defensively, instinctively moving to block them from his brother. There wasn't much he could do, bound, but he could try to stop them; sacrifice his body if he had to. Charlie looked at him intently, despite the rising fear in his eyes, and shook his head almost imperceptibly, warning him off. Don looked up as Colby shifted to his knees also, followed by Megan and David, and realized suddenly that whatever he did, they would do also, to protect him. If he acted, he could get them all killed. He looked back at Charlie; despair in his face, and sat back on his heels, defeated.

The anxiety in Charlie's eyes was replaced by a quick flash of relief, and he turned his head toward his captors as they stopped in front of them. Don could see the fear in his eyes, but it was countered by the determined set of his brother's jaw, and his heart sank. Charlie was still intent on resisting them, and Don knew what that meant. He glanced up to see Mahir watching him, and looked away, trying to compose his face.

Mahir eyed the NSA agent with interest. The man seemed to be in genuine distress. Possibly simply from the pain of the wound in his shoulder, but still…His thoughts were broken by Kafa's voice, who was ordering Charlie to stand up.

"Does he look like he can stand up, to you?" Megan spoke up suddenly, sharply, and all heads turned toward her. Her eyes flashed with anger.

Kafa sneered at her. "Shut up, woman." He produced a pistol, and held it to her head, and glared at Charlie. "Stand up."

Alarm had surfaced in Charlie's face, and he struggled awkwardly to a sitting position, pausing a moment to catch his breath, before he made it to his knees. He managed to get one foot in front of him, wincing at the pressure in his toes, and then pushed up, somehow getting his other leg underneath him, and both feet on the ground. He stood facing Kafa, swaying slightly, his face pale. Don stared at him helplessly, fear gripping his insides.

Kafa nodded. His subject was ready. "I will ask you again, Dr. Eppes, is there anything you wish to tell us?"

"No," said Charlie, his voice strained and hoarse.

"Very well," replied Kafa. His eyes flickered over Charlie with cold amusement. "I warn you, you will find your next experience…shocking." He jerked his head toward Charlie and two men stepped forward to take his arms, forcing him toward the door, holding him up as he staggered. His toes left bloody marks as he walked, and Don's eyes rested on the sanguine trail long after the door shut, his mind a black void of despair.

His stare was only broken as the lights in the room dimmed for a long moment, then brightened again, and Don looked up at them with fear. A moment later, the lighting dimmed again, and brightened, then dimmed. He knew with rising horror what was causing the draw on the current.

"Oh God," he whispered, and Colby, Megan and David exchanged looks of misery, as Don closed his eyes, surrendering to the anguish inside.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Tompkins spoke into his cell phone receiver from his car. "Walt, satellite picked up two dark colored vans and a sedan at the scene, and several people standing around them. The picture was too grainy for any definite ID's but it had to be them. Have you got your team ready?"

"_Yes," _came the reply_. "I've got fifteen lined up, between my organization and the ATF. We're just awaiting instructions."_

"Okay. The satellite guys are still going over images. There's a time lag between shots, and the next shot shows the vans gone. They're searching satellite images in a perimeter around the area, trying to see if they can pick them up again. It'll take a little while yet, but they should be able to find them, especially if they were traveling together. I'll let you know as soon as I've got more."

"_We'll be ready. I'm having my recovery team transport out to a point halfway between there and L.A. Hopefully we can cut down some travel time that way_."

"Good, thanks, Walt." Tompkins hung up the phone. After calling to get the satellite imagery started, he had phoned the President and delivered the bad news. He received the go-ahead to deliver the new developments to the directors of the FBI and ATF. The FBI director had been unaware of the situation, but relieved to know that his A.D. was already on it. '_Good man, that Merrick_,' thought Tompkins. Merrick apparently knew enough to not pass on sensitive communications without permission, even to his own boss. Following that, Tompkins had gone to the imaging department to personally review the satellite images.

Other than that visit, he had spent the last hour and a half being the bearer of bad news, and that was not about to change. He was now in the car, his hardest task still ahead. His jaw clenched, he headed toward his daughter's house in Maryland.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 11


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

"Aaauuuhhh." The subject groaned, his head rolling. Kafa eyed him with just a tinge of impatience. Dr. Eppes hung from the hook again, his clothing dripping with water, steam rising from his shirt at the last point where they had applied the electric shock. The professor was proving resilient, beyond expectations. Granted, the methods that Kafa was forced to use were crude, by his standards. Given more time, he would use more sophisticated techniques, which stood a better chance of success. Unfortunately, time was something that they didn't have. _"Take him down," _he commanded his men

Mahir was pacing behind him; and spoke in Farsi, with irritation. "_We are running out of time. According to Asif, we have only another hour. He is not unconscious yet. Why are you stopping?_"

Kafa looked at him coldly. "_Because we have come to our ending point. I have time for only one more method, and it is risky. It has a 30 percent mortality rate. He needs to be as strong as possible for the application. You do have your lookouts posted?"_

"_Yes. We will have a twenty to thirty minute notice; that is all."_

Kafa nodded, and turned back to the men, who had lifted Charlie from the hook. He slumped between them, his legs unable to support his weight. "_Take him to the other room_. _I will pack up this equipment and join you shortly."_

Charlie had released his mental picture of Don's face with a jolt, as he realized that he was being taken down. He had automatically tried to stand, only to find that his legs wouldn't obey him. In spite of the pain, his mind was still relatively clear, however, and he listened to the conversation with a sinking heart. He had no doubt that his minutes were numbered; he was sure that even if his mind held, his body would not make it through another session.

Pain was everywhere, and the fresh pain caused by the burns he had received from the shocks was pure agony. His torso was covered in large burns the diameter of golf balls; some of them blistered from the steam that came from his clothing, some of them beyond blisters. As they dragged him into the other room, the only thought on his mind was the fact that he would see his brother one more time before he went. The thought was nearly overwhelming, and his eyes dimmed with tears, as they laid him on the floor.

Don stared at his brother, his heart sinking. Charlie's eyes were open, but his breathing was labored, and the pain on his face made Don's heart contract in agony. Their captors had retreated across the room, congregating around the desk and table, and busied themselves with collecting items, including the IDs and the laptop. They were obviously packing up, and sudden hope surged through Don. Were they done with Charlie?

Colby was watching them too, with narrowed eyes, and he shifted around so that his back was toward them and the camera, sitting so that he blocked the camera's view of Charlie's face, and so that he also blocked their captors' line of sight. Don mimicked him, almost unconsciously, and they leaned over Charlie.

"Charlie," whispered Colby. "Did you tell them anything?" He could tell that Charlie was on his last legs; they needed to give him an opportunity to pass on anything that he needed to, regardless of the risk.

In spite of his pain, Charlie seemed aware. His eyes traveled toward their captors, and then toward the camera to be sure its view was blocked, before he shook his head.

"Do you need to tell us anything?" whispered Colby. Megan and David exchanged glances; they knew that Colby had realized that they were probably dealing with Charlie's last moments. Her heart sinking, Megan looked at Don; his face was filled with agony for his brother's pain, but she could tell that Don had not come to that conclusion yet. Charlie had though, she thought, as she watched Charlie's eyes rest on his brother – they were filled with something other than pain; sadness, resignation. She felt sudden tears well in her eyes.

Charlie again shook his head, and Colby whispered one more question. "Does anyone else know what you know?"

Charlie tore his eyes from Don and nodded an affirmative. "_Tompkins,"_ he mouthed, and Colby felt a small surge of relief. It was tempered by sadness, though, as Colby looked at his friend, sadness tinged with respect – respect for the bravery he saw, the determination, the sacrifice that Charlie was making for his country. The math professor was setting an example for all of them.

Charlie's eyes flickered again toward the camera and then across the room to be sure that their captors were not approaching. His eyes found Don's face, and Don saw it again – the look he had seen Charlie give him before. Charlie wanted to tell him something. He leaned closer.

Charlie swallowed hard. This was the hardest pain of all to bear – to say good-bye. He gazed intently into his brother's eyes; his own filled with deep sorrow. "I love you," he whispered, and waited, hopefully, desperately, a silent entreaty running through his head. '_Please, say it back. I want to hear it, just once.'_

Don's mind reeled. '_He's saying good-bye,' _he realized with shock, and he stared, stunned. '_He can't say good-bye – he can't…'_

Charlie gazed back, a plea in his eyes, his heart contracting in desperation. '_Please, say it, just once, so I know for sure,' _he thought, agonized_. 'Was that day in the park for real? Did it mean what I thought it did? Please…'_

Don vainly tried to control his swirling thoughts and emotions. _'This can't be happening,' _he thought in panic, as the reality of the situation fought with denial. "Charlie, no," he whispered, shaking his head, his face full of pain and sorrow.

Charlie watched him, waiting, and felt hope slipping away. He would never hear it - that day in the park was as close as he would ever come, he realized with despair, and his eyes filled with tears. The hope in his face changed to sad resignation. "It's okay," he whispered, his words an uncanny echo of his speech in the park. His eyes closed, and he whispered even more quietly, as if to himself. "You don't have to say it." He turned his face away, trying to hide the emotion in it.

'_Say what?' _thought Don desperately, his thoughts still whirling, derailed completely by shock, by denial. The words reminded him of something, but he couldn't place it. '_What…' _He stiffened, and Charlie's head whipped around at the approaching footsteps.

Mahir regarded the back of the NSA agent, and gave him a prod with his foot. "You are having quite the conversation," he said coolly. "Perhaps you have something to tell us."

"No," replied Don dully, not turning. Charlie's eyes flitted from Don's face to Mahir's, and he tried to fight down a growing sense of panic.

The door opened, and Mahir swiveled, to see Kafa enter. He turned back to Don. "I think you are lying. What did he tell you?" The room had grown silent; the other men and Kafa listening to the conversation.

"Nothing," repeated Don in a surly voice. "There is nothing to tell." He looked at Charlie, and the thought crossed his mind that he could pick up this burden from his brother; he could turn their attention to him. He saw a plea again in Charlie's eyes, and a warning look from all of his agents. If he did that, the looks told him, Charlie would give in.

Don realized, with a horrible finality, that he couldn't do that. He was sworn to defend his country and its citizens. Charlie had endured all of this to protect his country. Making him choose, after all he had gone through, was wrong, and Don knew it. There was only one burden that he could shoulder for Charlie; and this was it – protecting him from having to choose between Don and his country. He stayed silent.

"Perhaps we should try to persuade you," Mahir said softly.

Charlie's heart fluttered with panic. He had to divert their attention. He spoke, his voice loud enough for the men across the room to hear, in accented Farsi. "_He is ignorant. He knows nothing. You are wasting your time."_

The reaction was immediate. Every head in the room turned toward him, and Kafa and Mahir exchanged an uneasy glance. The professor spoke Farsi. Had they said something they shouldn't in front of him? Mahir's mind raced – he had used both Asif's name and Paulson's in Dr. Eppes' presence, he was sure, thinking that they would be unintelligible in the midst of the Farsi.

"_No matter," _thought Mahir, his senses returning. "_We will kill him anyway, when we are finished." _He turned away, and indicated Charlie with a jerk of his head. "Very well. We will proceed. Take him back to the room."

"No need," said Kafa. "This table will suffice. Bring him here."

Men came forward to lift him, and Charlie's eyes found Don's once more. The sorrow in them nearly broke Don's heart, and he stared back, his eyes locked, mirroring the despair, until they pulled Charlie away. At Kafa's indication the men laid him on the table near the desk.

Kafa strolled to its side and held up a syringe, speaking to Charlie. "What you have gone through up until now, is child's play, compared to this. What is in this syringe will generate pain such as you have never known. It is a combination of poisons, chemical modifiers, and drugs. It will produce ten minutes of intense pain, followed by a brief respite; then the waves of pain will return, like aftershocks, for the next several hours."

Kafa was a biochemist by degree, and had taught himself much about the effect of pain on the human body over the course of his macabre career. He knew that according to conventional wisdom, pain was transmitted from the nerve endings to the brain by something neurological researchers had labeled substance P. The black market chemists who had developed this drug had come up with an anticholinergic, in the form of a synthetic neuropeptide, a binding agent that prevented substance P from dissipating, leaving it concentrated in the nerve bundles, producing intense pain over the entire body.

The reaction was precipitated by poison, which started formation of the substance P. The anticholinergic then allowed the substance P to keep building, until the nerve synapses were so over-stimulated that they shut down. That resulted in a period of relief from the pain, but as soon as the nerves had recovered, it began to build again. The result was several waves of agonizing pain from one injection, which usually occurred over a time span of six to eight hours, but could extend over a period of days.

The drug was risky; the pain was so intense that thirty percent of the subjects that received it died from the pain, or their minds broke from the agony. Those with a high pain tolerance survived, but the mortality rate increased with each additional dose.

He looked at Charlie, and continued. "There is a thirty percent chance that you will either die from this; or go mad. It is pointless to go through it. Simply tell us what we need to know; and you can prevent it." He paused, and waited, his keen eyes taking in the subject on the table.

As Charlie had been dragged away from him, Don's mind returned to their interrupted conversation, and he wondered briefly, despairingly, what Charlie had wanted him to say. As they lifted Charlie onto the table, his words drifted through Don's mind again, and he had a sudden vision of his conversation with Charlie in the park. Like an echo, the words came back to him. "_You don't have to say it…" _

That day in the park, they had been talking about Charlie's uncertainty about Don's feelings toward him, Don remembered. With the memory came the realization of what Charlie was looking for, and the thought hit Don like a blow. '_He told me he loved me,' _he thought, stunned by the realization, by his own denseness. '_He wanted me to say it back!' _

His thoughts were broken yet again as he listened to Kafa's description of what was in the syringe, and mounting horror mingled with despair. _'Surely I've told him, somewhere along the line,' _thought Don, his mind racing frantically, but he realized with a sinking heart, as he thought through it, that he had never spoken the words aloud. The pain from the realization was unbearable. The wave of despair was so intense, it nearly knocked him senseless; the room spun, and he had to fight hard for awareness. He sagged, and felt someone move next to him, and found himself leaning on David's shoulder. As if from a distance, he could hear his brother's voice, hoarse with pain.

"I've already told you, I don't know anything."

'_Charlie, no…'_

"Tape him to the table. His head also, or he will beat himself to death," came Kafa's clipped command. Don watched, half-stunned, horrified, as the men began taping Charlie's limbs to the table with duct tape, running it across his forehead, across his torso. It reminded him, sickeningly, of Charlie in the psychiatric ward after his break, bound to his bed with restraints.

'_Charlie…'_

Kafa brought up the syringe to eye level, examining it, and Charlie tensed. _Please let this be the end – let it come quickly. _

One of his arms had been taped with the inside of the elbow up, and Kafa studied it, selecting a vein; then paused. "I am giving you one more chance. Will you cooperate?"

Charlie found his voice with an effort, his heart pounding. "No," he said hoarsely.

"Very well. I can guarantee you; this will be the longest ten minutes of your life." Kafa pushed the needle in firmly, and emptied the contents into Charlie's arm. Charlie closed his eyes, and fixed his mind on Don's face. Don in the park. Don smiling… '_You don't have to say it…' _Don had been there for him – it had been out of love, not duty. Never duty. '_He loves me,' _thought Charlie with desperation. '_He has to, he has to…' _He gasped, as the first wave of pain coursed through him, and began to mount. Don in the park. Focus. Don in the park.

Don watched stunned, overcome with pain of his own, as his brother gasped, then twisted against the tape and moaned. Disjointed thoughts tumbled through Don's shock-numbed mind. '_I love you, Charlie. I'm sorry I never said it. I love you…' _

The pain magnified. Charlie was swimming in a sea of pain, his body consumed. Every inch of him was on fire, the pain was mind-blowing, breathtaking. '_Don in the park…Oh, God, please…'_

'_I love you, Charlie…' _The thought twisted and writhed in Don's brain, like his brother against his bonds. It floated in his mind, mingling with the screams as they started; the horrible agonized, unending, guttural screams. The cries of agony filled his ears, and he fought back with the words, repeating them in his head like a mantra, trying to drown out the sound, praying for it to end.

'_I love you, I love you, I love you…'_

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 12


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

David would never have believed that ten minutes could seem so long. The gut-wrenching screams that were coming from Charlie seemed to go on forever. He felt Don sag against him, and studied him with concern. Don appeared to be going into shock; his face was gray, his eyes glazed, filled with a numb horror. David glanced at the other agents; Megan had averted her face, but he could see a tear streaking down her cheek, and Colby was staring at their captors balefully, his jaw clenched, with a look of pure hatred in his eyes that David had never seen before. He understood it though, because it was the same hatred that was raging through him at the moment.

The screams began to subside, finally, diminishing, with gaps in between them filled by tortured gasps for air, which ended in sobs. Charlie lay trembling, his chest heaving, the memory of the pain still showing in his face, his unfocused eyes on the ceiling. Mahir and Kafa bent over him, trying to put their faces in his line of vision, and Kafa spoke. "You have only moments before it begins again. There is an antidote that will stop the pain. Tell us now, and I will administer it." He was lying; there was no antidote, in fact even painkillers like morphine or the stronger Fentanyl were powerless; their effects short-circuited by the actions of the neuropeptide. However, after the first wave of pain, the mere promise of an antidote had gotten many to talk.

Mahir felt his cell phone buzz, and stepped away from the table. Kafa remained, leaning over Charlie. "Save yourself. It is so simple. Tell us what you know, and who you have told. Why do you bring this pain on yourself? Tell me now."

Charlie responded by closing his eyes, and Kafa frowned. Judging from his subject's half-conscious appearance, they were losing him. He looked up as Mahir spoke sharply in Farsi.

"_We need to move. They are on their way; we have fifteen minutes. We will take him with us_."

Kafa straightened, and answered coolly. "_You will take him with __you_," he corrected. "_I am done here_." He turned, and picked up his bag.

Mahir's eyes flashed angrily. "_You are not finished until he talks_."

Kafa shrugged. "_This is the last attempt. The aftershocks will provide all of the pain you need to get him to talk." _He handed Mahir a small black case, containing filled syringes._ "If that is unsuccessful, you can administer additional doses._" Kafa had no intention of remaining with this group; a fierce hunt would be on for them, and he would not run the risk of being caught.

Kafa continued. "_Keep questioning him in the periods between the pain. I would do no more than that, if I were to accompany you_."

Mahir spoke sharply to his men. "_Un-tape him, and bring him to the van_." He turned to Kafa. "_Your pay will be contingent on our success in getting him to talk_."

Kafa smiled, his eyes cold. "_I will receive my pay, regardless. That was the original agreement. You will not want to cross me._" He turned and walked out, as the men lifted Charlie from the table, limp; his head rolling.

Don was aroused from his stupor of despair as he saw them lift his brother. The stream of Farsi was unintelligible to him, and he watched with new panic as the men carried Charlie toward the door. Two other men picked up large cans and began pouring their contents around the perimeter of the room. "What are they doing?" he hissed, frantically.

Colby spoke quietly. "They're leaving – they're taking him with them."

Don ripped his eyes from Colby and focused on his brother's body. _No. They can't take him – I never got a chance to tell him…_ Another man opened the door for them to pass through. In a moment his brother would be gone. A flood of panic surged through him, and he screamed. "Charlie!"

Mahir was preparing to follow his men through the door, and at the sound, he looked again at Don, his eyes narrowed. The man was desperate, in agony. "_What did we miss?_" he wondered, but there was no time to find out. He hurried out, and the last man paused at the door and threw a match into the kerosene that he had poured. Don watched dully as the flames snaked around the perimeter of the warehouse. He was going to die, he thought dimly, with an odd detachment. He contemplated the thought from the depths of his misery, and realized that he didn't care.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Dave Pierce was a seasoned ATF agent, and had been selected by Merrick to lead the extraction team. The Pentagon had managed to track the vans to a manufacturing company outside town, and at Merrick's command, the team had mobilized, and were hurtling down the road. They were almost upon the objective when he saw the smoke. No vehicles in the lot, he noted. Were they too late?

He barked into the radio. "Pull in and assemble. We're going right in." The vehicles screeched into the lot and men poured from them, dressed in flak jackets and bearing automatic weapons. They were a mixture of FBI and ATF agents; most of them had never worked as a team, but to the casual observer, their movements were seamless. They formed into groups and two of the teams entered the front of the building, two more going around either side.

Inside, Pierce led the teams into the warehouse. Smoke snaked out of the room as they opened the door. The smoke was thick at the top of the high ceiling, but visibility was still good at floor level. They had no problem finding the four agents, and in minutes, had them out in the lot, stripping the tape off their wrists and ankles. One of the agents was wounded, and appeared to be in shock, but the rest seemed unharmed, other than suffering from some mild smoke inhalation. One of them, a solid-looking man with blue-green eyes and sandy hair, got to his feet and approached.

"Relax, agent," said Pierce. "Take it easy. We'll get you to the hospital and get you checked out." He spoke into his radio – he still had men inside the building. "We still have one more, Mike."

Colby shook his head. "He's gone. They took him."

Pierce looked at him, then at the group. "Who do we have here?"

"Eppes, Reeves, Sinclair, and I'm Granger."

"Which Eppes?"

"Don. They took Charlie with them. You guys need to move – they're in two dark blue vans. I'd like permission to come with you. In fact, I know we all would."

Pierce eyed the man in front of him. Granger seemed ready to burst with impatience; his emotions barely concealed. "Hold on a minute," replied Pierce. He stepped away, speaking into his cell phone, and returned just a moment later. "Sorry, Granger, no go. Merrick gave me strict orders to get you guys back to be examined and debriefed."

"Well, then, quit pissing around, and do something!" exploded Colby. "You need to get on the road, or you're gonna have no chance of catching them."

Pierce's eyes sparked at the outburst, but he said nothing. He spoke into his radio. "All right, Mike, get out of there. We've got everyone we're going to get here. Come on now, we need to move." Sirens of approaching fire trucks sounded in the distance, and he looked at Colby. "We're moving, Granger, we're moving."

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Merrick spoke tersely into the phone. "Bob, we took the site and found the team, but without Dr. Eppes. Apparently the kidnappers fled the scene before we got there, and took him with them. We've got patrols out looking for them, and APB's are out on the vans. We're getting surveillance teams in the air as we speak."

"What is the condition of the team?"

"They're all alive, and unharmed, except for Don Eppes. He's got a bullet graze in his upper arm. I'm having him taken to the safe house, and treated there. The rest of them will get checked out at the hospital and debriefed. My man talked with Colby Granger. He said up to the point when they left, Dr. Eppes hadn't given them anything."

Tompkins swallowed. "I assume they were using coercion methods?" The thought of the professor facing torture sickened him.

Merrick replied grimly. "I don't have details, but it sounded pretty bad. Kafa was in charge of the interrogation." His answer was greeted with silence, then a whispered curse. Merrick continued. "I've got the word out that Don Eppes was DOA at the van. The teams involved know better, but they've been instructed to keep it quiet. I'm going to send units after Dr. Eppes and his captors. I was wondering if I could have approval to send out one of your choppers."

Tompkins nodded, as if Merrick could see him over the phone. "Yeah, go ahead." His mind was still on Merrick's previous statement. _Kafa_. _Dear God. _

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Mahir listened to the muffled screams behind him, as they approached the vehicle switch point. Dr. Eppes was immersed in another wave of aftershocks, and in an attempt to quiet him and to keep him still, Mahir's men were holding him down on the floor of the van, one of them with a hand clamped firmly over the professor's mouth.

Mahir glanced in the side mirror at the road behind them. There were no signs of pursuit. He had hoped that the fire at warehouse would slow their pursuers; they would have to deal with a rescue first, and apparently it had worked well enough. The vans would soon be hidden, and they would be away in other vehicles.

He sorted through the collection of ID's, setting aside Charlie's passport, and then, picking out the NSA ID, opened it, studying the picture. Frowning, he opened the ID of Don Eppes, and as he looked at the picture he swore aloud. They had been holding Dr. Eppes' brother, and hadn't known it. His men looked at each other as his face contorted in fury. Wasseen Mahir was a devout follower of Islam; none of them had ever heard him swear.

They pulled into the storage area, waiting until the only vehicle in the complex pulled out. As soon as it was gone, two men jumped from the vans and opened the doors of two of the storage units. As the vans pulled into the empty units, they opened three more bays, revealing a white SUV with dark tinted windows, and two nondescript dark sedans.

One of the men addressed Mahir as the van stopped, indicating Charlie. "What should we do with him?"

Mahir stepped from the van and looked in through the sliding door, which his man had left open. Dr. Eppes' screams had subsided, and he lay on the floor, gasping for air. Mahir leaned forward and peered into his face, anger still in his eyes. "You suffer for your sins, lying Jew. We know that you found something, and you lie, and tell us you know nothing. You neglected to tell us about your brother. The pain is just punishment. But you can amend your ways, and be whole in Allah's sight. Tell us what you know, and I will take the pain away. Tell us, and you will find absolution."

An involuntary groan escaped Charlie. He was exhausted from fighting the pain, and his mind seemed to be losing function. He was having trouble remembering why he was there, lying on the van floor, and was beginning to lose chunks of memory. He remembered the warehouse, but couldn't recall how he got there. When was the last time he was home? Where was Don? What day was it? The thoughts slipped through his mind like sand through fingers – nothing was left but pain, nothing certain but agony.

A face swam before him, contorted with anger. Dimly he heard it commanding him to talk. Who was it? It looked vaguely familiar. Mansour? A voice echoed in his head. "_Damn boy, running off like that… He's marked, marked…" _The voice became louder, more insistent. "Tell me what you know."

"Nnnothing," slurred Charlie, trying to focus on the face. "Don' know…" He gasped, and his eyes rolled back in his head, which in turn rolled sideways.

Mahir's mouth was a tight line. "_Bring him with us_," he snapped in Farsi.

"_Over the border_?" said his man, incredulously.

Mahir shrugged. "_Why not? We have his passport. If they stop us, we will tell them he is drunk._"

"_With all respect, it will be dangerous_."

"_It is more dangerous to stay in this country. And I am not abandoning the mission. I owe Asif an answer, and I will get it_." Mahir turned, indicating the discussion was over, and headed toward the SUV. His men exchanged a glance, but lifted the professor, now unconscious, and transported him to the other vehicle.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Alan Eppes heard the car door slam, but with the heavy shades and drapes over the windows, he could not see outside. His stomach lurched at the sound, however. Visitors meant something, and at this point, he would take anything, any shred of information. He had been brought to the safe house with no explanation other than it was for his own safety, and left to stew in his own ignorance for hours. He could only surmise that something had happened concerning Charlie, but no one would answer even his most innocuous questions. Frustrated, angry, and terrified, he had spent the better part of the day in motion – pacing, sitting, standing; pacing again. He kept the TV tuned to the news channel, hoping for some clue as to what was happening, and every half hour the same stories repeated, as if mimicking Alan's repetitive movements.

The door opened, and Alan recognized the man who had brought him to the safe house. Jones. A bland nondescript name for a bland nondescript man. Alan was sure there was a reason for that. He suddenly noted the miserable look on the man's face, and in an instant, he went from impatient and irritated to terrified. Somehow, without knowing he was doing so, he rose to his feet.

"Mr. Eppes, please sit down," said Jones, uncomfortably. "I tried to get hold of Merrick before I came, but I couldn't, and I didn't want to wait – I thought you would want to know -,"

Alan remained standing – in fact, it was all he could do to keep from throttling the man as he stammered on. His voice came out sharp, brittle. "What? What do I need to know?"

Jones looked down, then up, his expression anything but bland. "Your son, Don, sir. I'm sorry sir, he's dead."

Alan stared back at him. The world seemed to go into a strange sort of suspended animation – nothing moved, he could hear nothing; he could feel nothing other than the painful contractions of his heart. Dimly he was aware of Jones moving toward him, helping him as he sank slowly back into the chair. _No. It wasn't true. There had to be some mistake. I would have known somehow – I would have felt it…Dear God, no…_

"How did it happen?" he asked hoarsely. _Maybe if the man had to recite the facts, he would come to the realization himself that it was mistake_. _A mistake, it had to be…_

"The security detail was attacked this morning on the way to the airport. Don was shot and killed. I'm sorry sir; I don't have much more than that."

"Security detail," stammered Alan. "Charlie?" The pain was so intense; he couldn't find the words to frame a decent question.

"I don't know sir. I didn't get any other details. I'm assuming that the rest of the team is alive, since no word came back on them." He looked at Alan with concern. The man's face was an unhealthy shade of gray. "Sir, perhaps you should lie down. I can have a doctor come…"

"No," rasped Alan hoarsely. "Just – just leave. I need some time – just…" He bowed his head, putting his face in his hands.

Jones looked up at the doorway to the kitchen, where one of the guards had materialized. "Keep an eye on him," Jones said softly to the guard, as he rose. "I'm going to try to get hold of Merrick, get some more information." His face suffused with pity, Jones backed away, and softly let himself out of the door.

For a long moment, the tears would not come. The pain, the despair, was so intense; it incapacitated Alan, putting a vise around his throat. When the sobs started, they rose from somewhere inside him that he didn't even know existed. Even when Margaret had died, he had not felt so deep a void. "Donnie," he whispered, as the tears poured down his cheeks, and the sobs came unchecked, rolling out of him uncontrollably, deep, wrenching, ragged sounds, which filled the dim room.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 13


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Wasseen Mahir shot a tense glance toward the back seat. The white SUV was approaching a line of traffic, waiting to cross the border into Mexico, and Dr. Eppes was in the midst of an aftershock. He had been seated between two of Mahir's men, and they now held him down on the seat, covering his mouth with a hand as he screamed and writhed. The windows in the SUV had an extremely dark tint, and it was nearly impossible to see in. The radio had been turned up, and rock pounded through the SUV, the screaming singer sounding amazingly like the tortured man in the back seat. It was disgusting; the music of infidels, but even it could serve a purpose for Allah.

They had their passports and business visa paperwork ready. The documents were fake, with false names, some of them American, some Mexican; they had crossed the border several times, using them without a problem. The only difficulty would occur if an alert had been issued at the border, and the border agent recognized Dr. Eppes, or his name.

The aftershock appeared to be subsiding; the cries subsided into moans, which trailed off into gasps. Charlie felt the hand over his mouth release, and arms pull him up into a sitting position. His head drooped with exhaustion from fighting the pain, and he leaned heavily against one of his captors, his eyes half-closed.

The traffic was converging now, the lines of vehicles drawing closer. Mahir shot a glance behind him at the half-conscious professor. It was time. "Give him the sedative," he commanded. Unfortunately, it would knock their captive out for several hours, but he had no choice. The line across the border could be long; Mahir had waited until the last possible moment to sedate their captive, in case they were delayed.

They had put Charlie's jacket back on him to make him look more like a business traveler. One the men grasped Charlie's arm and pulled up the sleeve; and Charlie tried weakly to pull away, but he was no match for the larger man in his current condition. His eyes fell on the syringe with despair as the other man positioned it.

Mahir watched as one of the men pushed the contents of the syringe into the professor's arm. As it took effect, Charlie's head dipped sharply. His eyelids fluttered, and then shut as he went limp, and one of the men leaned him against him, Charlie's head on his shoulder. Mahir took a deep breath, and smiled at the driver. "I think our friend had too much to drink last night. He is not feeling so well today." He reached forward and turned the radio down, but left it on, glancing once more in the backseat. The doctor appeared to be completely out.

They pulled forward to the stopping point, and the driver rolled down the window as the border guard approached. The guard looked Mexican, but spoke nearly unaccented English. "Passports please."

The driver handed him the passports and he scanned through them, comparing them to the driver and Mahir. "Roll down the rear window, please."

They complied and he looked in at the occupants, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the slight man slumped in the back seat. "Is he sick?"

The driver grinned, and spoke in nearly flawless English himself. "Only of tequila. He had a little too much last night."

A slight smile played around the border guard's lips. "Ai – too much tequila," he said, his accent deepening with his smile. He handed the passports back. "Purpose of visit?"

"Business," replied the driver smoothly, handing him the temporary work visa. He hit a button, raising the rear side window.

The border guard nodded, and handed the paperwork back. "Anything to declare?"

"Not unless you want to count the half liter of tequila in our friend," smirked the driver, and the border guard grinned and chuckled.

"Okay, move ahead," he said, waving them on. The driver's window slid shut and the SUV pulled forward, along with the rest of the traffic, over the Mexican border. Less than twenty minutes later, the alert came through, and as the border guard read it and looked at the photo of Dr. Eppes, he felt as sick as the man in the back seat had looked.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

"You what?" Merrick exploded into his cell phone, one hand gripping the wheel tightly. "No, never mind, I'll tell him myself. I've got Eppes with me, and we're almost there." He snapped the receiver shut angrily, as he wheeled one-handed into the driveway of the safe house. Alan Eppes had just been put through needless emotional pain by his man Jones. That was bad enough, and would be corrected momentarily, thought Merrick, glancing at Don Eppes in the seat beside him. Unfortunately, as soon as they fixed that, he would need to tell the senior Eppes about his other son.

Alan was still seated in the chair, staring numbly at the wall across from him when the door opened. The stupor he was in was so deep, he didn't even bother to look at the door or who was coming through it, and when Don's voice came, he was convinced he was dreaming. But there was something, there was a presence next to him…

He looked up at the man standing next to the chair, and at the sight of his older son, he tottered in shock to his feet, then staggered, as the room whirled around him. He felt hands guiding him back into his seat, leaning him forward, and Merrick's calm voice instructing him to breathe. As soon as he began to regain his senses, he fought off the gentle hands, and sat up, gripping Don's arms as if he were afraid that if he didn't hold him, he would somehow vaporize.

At his grip, Don winced, and Alan reluctantly released his hold, noticing the bandage on his son's arm. "Donnie – you're hurt – how – Oh, my God," and he rose and wrapped his arms around his son, as joy brought new tears to his eyes. Eventually Alan gathered what shreds were left of his composure, and stepped back, one hand still resting on his son's good arm for his own reassurance.

Don didn't respond; he looked exhausted, with despair in his eyes, and Alan's heart gave a painful squeeze. "Charlie?" It was all he could manage, as new fear suddenly plowed through his brain, rendering it incapable of coherent thought.

Merrick spoke from behind Don. "I think we should all sit down. I have a doctor coming to look at Don's arm." Don moved like an automaton to the sofa, and sat heavily, and Alan crossed the room and sank down beside him, looking from his son to Merrick fearfully. The extreme swings of emotion were making his head spin, and as the joy receded, he felt suddenly nauseous. The agents that had been assigned to the safe house vanished discreetly into another room. The television had somehow gone silent during the process.

Merrick eyed Alan gravely. "First, I need to apologize for the bad information that you received earlier. It is true, that there was an agent killed today, and we have been reporting that agent to be Don, for his own safety. That word got through the system, and unfortunately, back to you, before I could talk to you personally. For that, please accept my sincerest apologies."

Alan eyed Don with a grateful expression. "You brought me my son. That is more than enough of an apology for me." Don gaze flickered toward him briefly, but then returned to the floor, his expression dull, lifeless. Alan felt new fear knife through him again, and he looked at Merrick.

"What I am about to tell you is highly classified. You will not get the whole story, but even the parts I will tell you cannot be repeated, even after this is over. Do you understand?"

"_After what is over?" _thought Alan, but he nodded.

Merrick continued. "Charlie was working on something highly sensitive, which has broad and dire implications for our national security. This morning, on the way to the airport, he and his security detail were apprehended, and kidnapped."

At the word kidnapped, Alan's heart lurched. He had heard about the attack, but Jones had said nothing of kidnapping.

Merrick continued. "We managed to rescue most of them. Dan Caldwell was killed, but Don and his team were recovered. Charlie was not. They still have him."

Alan struggled to breathe; his diaphragm seemed suddenly frozen, incapable of bringing in air. He looked at Don, and the sight did nothing to alleviate his terror. Don seemed almost catatonic, his face drawn, his eyes on the floor.

Alan finally managed a shaky breath, and looked back at Merrick. "Was he – is he – hurt?"

A veil passed over Merrick's face, leaving sadness in its wake. "From all accounts, he is not well. He was tortured for the information. He was still alive when they took him." He looked at both of them, seated on the sofa. At the news, Alan had fallen into a stunned silence, staring at the floor in shocked despair, and for a moment, both father and son wore identical expressions.

Alan raised anguished eyes. "They're looking for him, right? They're trying to find him?"

Merrick nodded. "We're doing everything we can. I want you to know, from what Don's team has told us, your son was extremely brave. You should be very proud of him. I'm hoping that you'll be able to tell him that in person, soon."

Alan's eyes stung with tears, and he turned toward Don as the implications of Merrick's statement sunk in. If Don's team knew he was brave, it meant that they had witnessed the torture, which meant that Don also… "Oh, Donnie," he said, his voice breaking.

Merrick rose. "I am going to leave you for now. The doctor will be here shortly. I thought it would be better for Don to be here with you. I'll inform you as soon as I know anything."

Alan nodded, blankly, still staring at Don. As soon as Merrick left, he pulled his son toward him, and Don slumped against him sideways, his head on his father's shoulder. Don shuddered suddenly with a sob, and tears began to spill from his eyes. "I didn't tell him," he said in a low, shaking voice. "In thirty-two years, I never told him. That was all he wanted, at the end, and I didn't say it… I didn't…" His voice broke, and he sat up and leaned forward, his body shaking, racked with silent sobs.

Alan had never seen his oldest son cry like that, never, not even as a child. He felt his heart constrict at the words, and he gazed at Don as he tried to make sense of them. '_Tell him what?_' he wondered. "Donnie, you said 'at the end.' Merrick said he was still alive. He _is_ still alive?"

Don's only response was to stare at him, despair and horror in his eyes. Shocked, grief-stricken, Alan reached for him and held him tight, as tears of his own ran down his face, for the second time that day.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Tompkins looked up wearily as a knock sounded, and his office door opened. Jeff Paulson's head appeared in the opening. "You wanted to see me, Bob?"

"Yeah, Jeff," said Tompkins, straightening. "Come in, close the door. I have an assignment for you." As Paulson sat, he continued. "We have an urgent issue- a consultant that was working on a decoding assignment for us has been kidnapped, we believe by a terrorist organization with ties to Iran. Charlie Eppes – I'm not sure if you've met."

"Yes, but just briefly," murmured Paulson, "It's been about three years." He pasted a concerned frown on his face, and regarded his director. Tompkins' frown was the real thing – the man looked exhausted, stressed nearly to his limit.

Tompkins continued, wearily. "We just received a report that the kidnappers and Dr. Eppes passed over the border at Yuma, into Mexico. I'm sending two teams in to look for him. I would like you to head one of them up, and Jim Conway is going to head up the other. You will have oversight over Jim and his people. I'm giving you each leeway to pick your own teams." He pushed a file toward Paulson. "The details, including our best guess as to how many of them there are, and what they were driving, is in here."

Paulson fought to maintain his concerned expression. This was perfect. He would have an inside line, and be able to manipulate at least part of the investigation. Too bad there was another team involved – it would be much easier to manage without them. Still, they only needed a few more hours, perhaps less. It would be easy to stall for that long. "May I ask what Dr. Eppes was working on?"

Tompkins sighed. "Actually, it's better if you don't know. With the leaks in our organization, I am giving out information on a need-to-know basis. This is for your own protection. If information was leaked, and you didn't possess it, no one can accuse you of being involved. You and Jim are two of the few people I still trust. I don't have to tell you that you need to be careful when you pick your teams – make sure that you have people that you trust without question. This is an extremely sensitive issue. I need you to assemble your men and get down there as soon as possible. We will have a jet standing by."

Paulson rose. "Of course."

"I want frequent updates via cell phone – hourly if you can. Once you locate him, we can send in reinforcements for extraction. Good luck."

Paulson nodded gravely. "Thank you, sir." As he turned to walk out, a smile crept to his lips.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

"I think we should send our own team in, without their knowledge. Look at it as insurance." Merrick waited for a response from his director, trying not to the let the silence on the other end of the line throw him. He had received the call from Tompkins moments ago, who had told him of his plans to send in teams to recover Dr. Eppes.

"_Walt, you know that it would be highly irregular. I don't disagree that we should send in a team, but we should let the NSA know."_

"That would make it pointless. Dave, you know the issues that Bob is having in his organization. In spite of his good intentions, we both know that one or both of his teams could be compromised. Apart from Bob, I don't trust any NSA agent further than I can throw them right now. Dr. Eppes is one of us. We owe it to him."

"_All right. Let's say, theoretically, that we decide to do this. Who in the hell would you send? You know you have to keep your team members with higher clearances available, per the President's direction."_

"I've got three in mind. That will leave me with plenty of agents on standby. I'd head the team up with Gerardo Garcia, out of Tucson." As he heard the affirmative grunt from the other end, Merrick took a deep breath. This would be the hard part. "The second man would be Don Eppes."

"_No way_." The Director's tone indicated that he believed that Merrick had completely lost his mind. "_He's injured, and all the reports that came back indicated that he was close to losing it when they got him out of there_."

"Of course he was close to losing it. He'd just watched his brother being tortured," snapped Merrick back, impatiently. He was pushing it, he knew, but he couldn't help himself. "Look, number one, I don't have that many agents that could handle this assignment that aren't set aside according to Presidential orders. Number two, these aren't ordinary times. If they were, I would agree with you, but at times like these, we need to make allowances. Eppes is perfect – we have him listed as dead – he can go in under an alias. I spoke to the doctor; his wound is painful, but shouldn't be inhibiting. This will give him an opportunity to do something to help his brother, and I really think he needs that right now. He won't be the team leader - Garcia will call the shots."

He stopped, partly to catch his breath, partly because he had run out of ammunition, and waited. For the life of him, he couldn't explain why he felt so strongly about sending Don Eppes out – but he did, and after years in the field, he knew that instinct had served him well. He owed Don the opportunity; for that matter he owed Charlie – and no one would work harder to find the professor than his brother. '_If it were me out there_,' thought Merrick, '_I would want these three men looking for me_.'

This time the silence stretched even longer. Finally the Director spoke. "_When it comes to following protocol, Walt, you're normally a fanatic. I suppose I need to take that into account. When you're the one telling me we need to deviate from the rules, I guess I should be listening. Okay, then, I approve the concept and the team so far. Who's your third?"_

Merrick smiled into the phone. The third man was a shoo-in; the hard part was over. In a few moments, he would be on his way to the safe house, with a new lease on life for his lead agent. He just hoped it wouldn't be too late.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 14


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Charlie moaned softly, and stirred. Or rather, his head moved slightly; the rest of him was nearly immobile. His eyes opened slowly into slits of pain, and he stared at his knees, trying to gather his thoughts. He hurt everywhere; from the burns and bruises, his muscles aching from the repeated spasms, and through it all, as if from a distance, his toes throbbed, the tortured signals that his feet were sending unable to overcome all of the other pain. And in the background hovered the memory of the monster, the pain of all pain.

As awareness returned, recollection came back in snatches. The abduction, the warehouse, the torture – Don and his team. He blinked and tried to raise his head, noting that he was apparently bound to a chair, and took in his surroundings. A bare room, lit by a single bare bulb in the ceiling. The walls looked like heavy plaster, or stucco, and although the windows were shut and filmy, he could see twilight creeping in. It was a house – not the warehouse. Very dimly, he remembered being in a vehicle. They had taken him here – but where was here, and where were Don and the other agents?

Of one thing he was certain, he was going to die. Either from the pain, which had already taken its toll on him, or by his captors' hands. As the realization returned, sadness came with it. Images flashed through his mind of all of the things he would never see again – his father, Amita, Larry, his house, the koi pond. And Don. Was he here too? Charlie doubted it. Everything was gone, or would be soon. All that remained was pain, and duty. He had made it this far. Somehow, he had to call on his last reserves of strength, and make it to the end.

After a few moments, the door opened and Mahir stepped in, followed by three of his men. He eyed the professor silently. Pain was evident in the man's face, but he looked more alert after his sedative-induced rest. Mahir had no way of knowing it, but the sedative had prolonged his captive's life, by giving his overloaded heart and nervous system a much needed respite from the pain.

Mahir slowly raised a syringe and spoke softly. "In this syringe is another dose of the poison. You know now what it feels like. You hold your own destiny in your hands. If you talk to us, I will put this syringe away. It is that simple. Tell us what you know, and how much the NSA knows, and you can spare yourself."

Charlie closed his eyes and shook his head, giving the same response he had given – how many times? "I know nothing." Even as he spoke, he felt his heart contract in terror. The monster was coming for him, returning.

Mahir's face convulsed with anger and impatience. "You are lying. We know that you have found something and reported it to Tompkins. We have a witness to the phone conversation. You are lying, just as your brother's identity was a lie." He watched with interest as the professor's face reacted to the mention of his brother's name. Perhaps he could use the brother as leverage yet. "Like all liars should, he died a horrible death."

He watched as Charlie's head came up, a stunned expression on his face, and continued, embellishing the story with falsehoods. "Oh yes, we burned the warehouse before we left. If you had been awake, you would have heard his screams. Perhaps you did, subconsciously."

Charlie closed his eyes, his chest heaving in a futile quest for air. Don – dead – burned to death. _Oh, God. _Through the wave of sorrow, he dimly felt Mahir next to him, murmuring softly in his ear. "Listen carefully, Dr. Eppes, and you can still hear him screaming. Why did you do this to him? You had only to speak, and no one would have been hurt. Speak now, before more damage is done. Speak, and save yourself."

"No!" gasped Charlie, the word spewing out as a ragged exclamation, as the pain, this time emotional, rose in him again.

"Very well," said Mahir flatly. They had removed Charlie's jacket before binding him to the chair, and his bare arm was readily available, twisted behind him. Mahir held the syringe once more in front of Charlie's face, and watched with a secret satisfaction as the fear surfaced in the infidel's eyes. Slowly drawing it down, he injected it into the captive's forearm.

Charlie tensed as he felt the needle, and gasped as the first tendrils of pain crept through his body. His mind reached desperately for his focal point as the agony ramped up inside him – Don's face, smiling, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

As he twisted in his bonds, his head whipped sharply, and Mahir gestured to his man. "Hold his head." The man stepped behind the chair and pulled Charlie's head against him, one arm locked around it. The man was powerful, but it was all he could do to hold the victim's head still.

Charlie spun into the chasm as the pain claimed him, clinging desperately to his focal point. Don's smiling face danced in his vision, then, as Charlie screamed uncontrollably, the image of his brother's face wavered, and burst into flames.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

General Whittier looked along the length of the table at his old friend, Bob Tompkins. Tompkins was rising to speak, and although it had only been a few weeks since Whittier had seen him, it looked as though the man had aged years. Tompkins stood wearily, but straight-backed, and the talk in the room died to a hush, although the tension in the air remained, an almost tangible presence.

"Ladies, gentlemen, Mr. President." Tompkins began speaking, his voice strong in spite of the weariness in it. The room was filled with anyone who mattered in American government, particularly in the security and state sectors. "Last night, we met to discuss the finding of a dire impending threat to our nation. During the day today, the heads of the FBI, ATF, and other organizations, including our U.S. Marshals and portions of our National Guard and armed forces, met and identified the teams that they could provide to deal with this threat. You have just heard from the heads of those agencies, and they are prepared. Now we must decide whether or not to act."

"I know many of you were skeptical last night as we discussed this. To assure you that our conclusions were based in fact, I had planned to have our consultant here with me to address you this evening, so that you could be comfortable with his findings. Unfortunately, that consultant, Charles Eppes, was kidnapped this morning on the way to his flight, along with his security team. Most of the security team was rescued, and the story they told us left no doubt that the kidnappers were of Middle Eastern origin. The kidnappers were also desperate to know what Dr. Eppes had told us – so desperate that they subjected him to unspeakable torture." Tompkins voice cracked ever so slightly, and to cover it, he paused and took a drink of water.

He faced the group again, and continued. "We were unable to recover Dr. Eppes; that effort is ongoing. As we speak, he is still in their hands; we believe somewhere in Mexico. Therefore, he cannot be here to explain his findings. However, I think you must agree with me when I say the reason for his absence is compelling enough, without his testimony. There is no doubt this is real, ladies and gentlemen. After hearing this, there can be no doubt in your minds at all."

There was a dead silence in the room, then the President spoke. "Director Tompkins is correct; there is no more room for doubt. Is there anyone in this room that still wishes for more evidence?" He paused, and when he received nothing but silence, continued, addressing Tompkins. "What are the chances that Dr. Eppes has given them what he knows?"

Tompkins took at deep breath. "At the time we rescued his security detail, they told us that Dr. Eppes had given them nothing. That was why the kidnappers took him with them; they still needed the information. However, he was subjected to extreme torture, at the hands of one of the most nefarious experts in the world, a man by the name of Mashud Kafa." At Kafa's name, several members of the table looked at each other grimly. "Seasoned agents have been cracked, some destroyed, by Kafa. We can only surmise that the kidnappers will eventually be successful."

The President nodded and addressed the group again. "Our agency heads have told us that they have identified their teams; that they are ready. We need to operate based on the assumption that the element of surprise is gone; that the terrorist group was able to find from Dr. Eppes that we have information on them. Based on that, there is no other alternative than to act immediately to apprehend them – and by immediately, I mean tonight. Is there anyone here that disagrees?"

Head shaking and murmurs of "No, Mr. President," filled the room. Fiery general Willie Jessup slapped the table, and barked in a strong Southern accent, "We're with you sir. I say get the bastards, the sooner the better."

The President looked at his agency heads. "Madam, gentlemen; ready your teams. I want you to jointly agree on a start time, and communicate it back to the command center. We move tonight."

Tompkins took a deep breath. His job; to communicate the issue and convince the group of the urgency, was over, and he had been successful. The success was hollow, however. The faces of the men who had paid the price for the information floated in his mind. Gentle, wise Harold Staunton, his own son-in-law, Dan, as dear to him as any son, and his young friend, Professor Eppes. Two dead; the third possibly dead, or worse. What a terrible price, indeed.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

"No, Donnie." Alan looked at his older son miserably.

Just moments before, Merrick had returned. Since being treated by the doctor, Don had been lying on the bed in an adjoining room, staring silently at the ceiling. Alan had taken a seat in the other room in order to give his son some quiet, hoping he would sleep, but he sat so that he could see him; partially so that he could be at his side if he needed anything, and partially for his own sake. After thinking that he had lost him, he couldn't bear to let his oldest out of his sight.

It was obvious after an hour that as exhausted as Don had looked, sleep was not going to come. The look on his face frightened Alan; it was devoid of hope, the eyes full of despair so deep it defied description. Don's reaction was breeding the horrible fear inside Alan that there was little hope for his youngest. Alan sat himself, in agony, fighting back the sobs that rose as he thought of Charlie – visions coursing through his mind of his son's errant curls, his brilliant smile…The thought that his baby, his youngest, could even now be gone, or dying a horrible death, consumed his mind, and he sat wordlessly, mindlessly, steeped in a despair to rival Don's.

At the knock on the door, and the nod from the security guard, he had let Merrick in, and watched from the other room as the man pulled up a chair next to the bed, and Don swung his legs over the side to sit facing him. He couldn't hear the conversation, but watched as the expression in his son's eyes changed by degrees – from defeat to comprehension to resolve. At the end of the conversation, Don nodded and rose from the bed as Merrick rose from the chair, and they clasped hands with the strong meaningful grip of comrades in arms. Alan's heart had sunk even before Don had come to tell him he was leaving.

"I have to, Dad," said Don, earnestness mixed with pain in his eyes, as he looked at Alan, still seated in the chair. "You don't understand – it was my security detail – they took Charlie on _my_ watch. I have to know that I did what I could to get him back, or I'll never be able to live with this." _Even if I do find him, I'll never be able to live with this. _

Alan looked down. "It's too dangerous." He looked up, his eyes filled with agony. He couldn't stand to lose them both. "They can send someone else."

The pain in Don's own eyes was tempered by softness. "Dad, they can't. They need all of the agents they can get right now. Something is happening – Merrick wouldn't tell me what it is – but it's something big – something to do with what Charlie was working on. Even if they could spare the agents, I would go. I have to do this. Please, understand."

Alan shook his head. "No. I already lost you once – I can't go through that again."

Don's eyes flashed and he kneeled and gripped his father's upper arms. "Dad, listen to what you're saying. It's Charlie – we can't give up on him."

Alan looked into his eyes, searchingly. "Are you saying there is still a chance he's alive? You didn't answer before – I thought…,"

Don looked away, and Alan's heart sank, but he looked up as Don faced him, and spoke, his face full of misery. "I don't know Dad – it was bad. I don't see how he could…but even so, I have to try. Until we know differently, we need to believe that he's alive. I need to bring him back, no matter what."

Alan looked down at his hands, his eyes stinging, and then blinked away the tears and looked his son in the eye, somehow choking out the words. "All right, then. If you have to, then go."

Don nodded, and rose, but at his father's voice, turned, halfway to the door.

"Donnie?"

"Yeah, Dad," Don said softly.

Alan rose and crossed the room and held him tightly, silently. "Please, be careful," he finally whispered. "And bring him home."

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

In spite of the late hour, the plane was packed. There was only one flight into San Luis Rio Colorado daily from L.A., and it left at midnight. Don settled wearily into a seat near the wing door. Mercifully, the seats next to him were empty; they had been reserved for deadheading flight crew that had failed to show. The plan was for Don to fly to San Luis Rio and meet Gerardo Garcia at the airport. In the meantime, Don knew he needed to catch some much needed sleep.

He closed his eyes and tried to calm his whirling thoughts, to push down the visions that crept from the corners of his mind. The horrible images were relentless, however, and in a desperate attempt to keep them away, he tried to think about his brother in happier times. His thoughts drifted back to their boyhood, and as his mind flitted over the long-ago memories, he slowly relaxed, pondering the elusive, convoluted thing that had been his relationship with his brother.

Bradford had accused him once of hating Charlie, which he vehemently denied, although almost in the same breath he admitted that he had thought of his brother as a "curly-haired black hole who sucked the life out of everything." It was true, when Charlie was younger, Don had resented him. Hate was definitely too strong a word, even then, but Don had to admit to himself that he was jealous, and that his indifference, his resentment, had blinded him to his younger brother's adoration.

It had taken the events of Los Padres, of almost losing Charlie, to make Don realize what his younger brother meant to him. The more he thought about it, the more he was sure that his indifferent attitude when they were younger was a protective shell of his own. Until they talked in the park after Los Padres, he never realized how badly Charlie had wanted to be close to him. As a child he had never thought that – in fact, the opposite seemed to be true. Charlie had everything he needed, the brains, the attention, the love of their parents. What did he need Don for?

Now, Don had finally realized that for all of those years, he had craved his brother's love as much as Charlie had craved his; that Don's screen of indifference was erected not only to keep Charlie away, but to convince Don that he really didn't need him – he didn't need a love that he had thought wasn't there. His admission in the warehouse, albeit to himself, that he truly loved his brother, was a revelation, that hit him with the force of a blow. That day, he knew without question that he always had – it been buried under his toughness, his independence; the thick skin he had created for himself for all of those years.

"That's so wrong," he whispered to himself, his eyes stinging with tears under closed lids. They had floundered for years in a dysfunctional relationship that finally had started to mend – only for it to end before it began. It wasn't fair, it wasn't right, it wasn't…

"Can I get you something, sir?"

Don eyes flew open, and he looked at the flight attendant with confusion. "I – uh- no, I'm okay, thanks." The woman was looking at him with sympathy and concern, and he turned his face toward the window, trying to hide the moisture in his eyes, pretending to study the dark landscape below.

Tiny clusters of lights winked in the blackness. Charlie was out there somewhere. "I love you, Buddy," Don whispered to himself. _God, please don't let it be too late for me to tell him. Please, don't let it be too late…_

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 15


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

Megan glanced at Colby and David as Merrick shut the door to the conference room. They had all been taken to the hospital earlier for checks; then sent home for some much-needed rest. Judging by the fatigue in their eyes, and their grim expressions, her fellow agents hadn't gotten any more sleep than she had. It had been impossible to squelch the events of the day – images of Charlie, in agony, and the heartbreaking look in Don's eyes had continued to play through her head. It was now midnight, and they had been called by Merrick back to the office.

They had been briefed that Don was now undercover, and the official word was that he was dead. After what had happened that day, it had been no chore to look grim and upset when they came into the office, which was humming with activity even at this late hour. Most of the agents in the office were being told that they needed to stand by; with no explanation other than that they needed to be available. Most of them would not even be asked to be part of the mission, but Merrick had wanted backup readily at hand. The odd request that they all be there at that late hour had generated an undercurrent of tension and guarded excitement in the group. It was overlaid by a mantle of sadness at the news of their lead agent's death.

Merrick turned and faced the group. He looked exhausted, and it had the effect of humanizing him somehow, thought Megan. The crusty exterior and sometimes pompous, demanding attitude had been stripped away; and she caught a glimpse of the real man underneath. What she saw was a man who was dedicated, caring, yet completely competent and in control. She understood why he had made it to the position that he was in.

Merrick spoke softly. "I understand that we are asking a lot of you, when we request you to head up this mission. Ordinarily, after what you went through today, you would be put on leave. Unfortunately, we do not have that luxury. Our President is calling for our services."

He paused for a moment, to let that thought sink in. "I am asking the three of you to head up a team for an operation this evening, or should I say, this morning. You will have a team of fifteen people with appropriate training and clearances to be part of this mission. Two of them will be agents from our own office, and four more from other offices. The remainder will be made up by ATF agents, U.S. Marshals, and a few from our intelligence sectors. I will brief the entire team later, but I wanted to speak with you first."

He looked at Megan squarely. "Reeves, you will command the mission. Sinclair and Granger will be your lieutenants, with Sinclair second in command, should you be incapacitated. We are hoping that we still have the element of surprise, but to be safe, we must assume that we do not. I am sure you understand that all of this is highly confidential. No one other than the team is to know about the activity. Even if you are contacted by other members of government, even those of high rank, you can divulge nothing."

"In other words, NSA," said Megan with grim smile.

"No one," repeated Merrick, "but especially NSA. We have only a limited time to act; we have orders to complete this mission by dawn. You are being asked to raid the residences of a known cell of terrorists, and bring them in. We have surveillance already posted at the sites. As a group, I want you to review the information and come up with a plan of attack, including a start time for the mission, which I need to communicate to Washington."

He laid a thick file on the table. "Here is information on the members of the cell, and their locations. You have exactly one half hour before we meet with the rest of your team."

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Wasseen Mahir looked at his captive with rising frustration. He had expected his story of the brother's death to weaken Dr. Eppes' resolve. In fact, it had had a profound effect; it had seemed to break him, to the point that he had shut down. Before, he had responded to their questioning at least on a minimal level, by denying any knowledge. Now, he didn't respond to them at all; their threats and queries were ignored. The professor spent the moments between bouts of pain in a silent world of his own, his eyes downcast, unfocused, at least on anything outward. He had retreated into himself, like a wounded animal.

To make matters worse, their subject was deteriorating. After each wave of pain, the professor seemed spent, nearly unconscious for a period of time, while he recovered. The episodes of near unconsciousness were becoming longer, and Dr. Eppes was weaker and less lucid each time he came around. Mahir had realized that the professor's body would fail long before his mind, and he didn't give him more than a few hours.

It was now past two in the morning, well after the deadline that they had been trying to meet. With a disgusted look at his captive, he pulled out his cell phone and stepped into an adjoining room to give Asif an update.

As the phone on the other end was answered, Mahir spoke. "Mohammed, may Allah be with you."

The voice on the other end was tinged with anticipation, but Asif returned the greeting politely. "And with you, my brother. You have had success?"

"No, regrettably. Even after two doses of Kafa's poison, the professor still refuses to talk. We will continue to monitor him in the event that he finally breaks, but that is looking less likely."

There was silence on the other end, which stretched for an interminable minute. "Then we must act as if they have the information. There is no other choice. We know from Paulson that there was a high level meeting this evening. They may even now be planning to move against us. We need to contact our teams tonight, and put the plan in motion."

"There is risk in moving quickly," said Mahir. "The secondary wave will be difficult to pull off; they do not have all of the vehicles yet."

"It is better to manage the first part of the plan rather than none at all," replied Asif. "Even the first phase will bring destruction such as they have never known. Continue in your efforts to get him to speak, but in the meanwhile, I will contact the cell heads, and begin to move. Call me immediately with any news."

He did not speak the words, but Mahir could hear the veiled disappointment. Mahir was failing in his task, and that failure could potentially jeopardize their brilliant mission. Bile rose in his throat as he flipped the cell phone shut, and it was only with a supreme effort that he controlled himself as one of his men stepped into the room.

"The police have just gone by again," he said. "They are definitely suspicious."

The house that they were in was a modest dwelling in the small town of Sonoyta that was leased by one of their team. The man used it occasionally, but it remained largely vacant, and the white SUV and the two sedans that had suddenly appeared there were apparently drawing the attention of the local police.

"They are thinking it is perhaps drug activity," said the man. "I suspect they will try to track the vehicle plates."

Mahir felt frustration rising again, tinged with rage, not only at himself for failing, but also at Professor Eppes. Fighting for control of his voice and expression, he snapped, "Then we leave. Now. We will continue to interrogate him as we travel. Get the others." He stood there, battling a growing fury, and watched with hatred in his eyes, as they carried out the semi-conscious professor. The man was not even an agent; it should not have been this difficult to get the information from him. How had this young, slight, inexperienced man put them in this position?

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don walked stiffly down the steps of the plane onto the tarmac, and shuffled in with the rest of the group through customs and claimed his baggage, which was nothing more than a small duffel. No sooner had he made it through the line than a young man of apparent Mexican nationality stepped forward. "Don Moore?" he asked politely, using Don's alias. "I'm Gerardo Garcia."

He extended a hand, and Don took it, returning the keen gaze of the young man in front of him. Gerardo Garcia was a good-looking, solid young man with an easy manner and a brilliant smile. Solid was actually an understatement; the man was built like a pro football lineman, and would make Colby's build look average by comparison.

"Good to meet you," murmured Don, and they turned together down the hallway that led from the single gate.

"My friends call me Jerry," said Garcia with an easy smile. He glanced sideways. He usually got a reference to the Grateful Dead with that revelation, but Eppes didn't respond, other than to shoot him a glance with slightly narrowed eyes. What caused the expression could have been anything from annoyance to amusement, but Garcia was unperturbed by the silence. "I've got a car outside. She's a beaut."

They stepped out into balmy night air and headed toward the small parking lot. The "beaut" turned out to be a rather nondescript 1984 Buick sedan, a little on the seedy side.

"Don't let appearances throw you," said Garcia, with a grin, as Don threw his bag in the back. "We needed something that wouldn't attract a lot of attention, and most places down here, this car will fit right in. It's got a rebuilt, bigger engine that'll give us plenty of speed. Got it from a garage I know about – they're hackers that mostly pimp rides, but word is that they do pretty good work."

They got in and Garcia started the car; the engine hesitated, but then roared to life, and he grinned, his smile luminous even in the darkness. "Listen to that, man. I've got cars from them before when I've been down here."

Don eyed him as Garcia pulled out of the lot. "You spend a lot of time down here?"

"Yeah, mostly gathering info related to the drug trade and illegal immigration. I drift around the small towns, stopping in bars and digging for information. Same kind of thing we'll be doing on this assignment. The cantinas in the smaller towns are a great source. Nothing gets by the people in those little places, and the bar is where they go to spend time, to hang out and gossip. No one is a better gossip than an old man tanked on tequila."

He grinned at Don. "Better brush up on your drinking skills. We'll be hitting a lot of bars."

Don said nothing. He stared out of the window at the dim desert landscape. At the moment, he could probably down a bottle of tequila without it making a dent in the void in his heart.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Megan scanned the faces of her team, who were scattered around their vehicles, donning flak jackets and checking equipment. It was nearly three a.m., and they were ready for the first raid. They had assembled on a vacant floor of the parking garage, and the fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow over the scene. As the team members finished outfitting, they gathered in a group in front of her, per her directions. She was waiting for the last few when her phone rang.

She flipped it open with a glance at Colby and David, and turned her back and stepped away to answer it, but not so far that they couldn't hear her response.

"Reeves. He's moving? Okay – you need to tail him, but be inconspicuous. If you think you're sticking out, call for another tail." There was a pause. "Okay. Keep me posted."

She clicked the phone shut and turned back to Colby and David. "That was surveillance on one of the cell members – he just left his apartment…" The phone rang again and she flipped it open. "Reeves."

As she listened, she looked at Colby and David meaningfully. "Okay, you're following? Whatever you do, don't get made. I'm going to get some backup tails out on the streets. Okay – good."

She shut the phone and shook her head. "That was the surveillance for the cell leader. They're moving." Her phone rang again and she flipped it open. "Reeves, hold please. David, get on the phone to Merrick, let him know what's going on. Tell him we need back up tails on the street now." She spoke into the phone. "Okay, go ahead. Yeah, it looks like the others are moving too…"

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

An hour and a quarter later, they were assembling behind a vacant warehouse in and industrial park. A few lots away, in a smaller storage facility, the entire terrorist cell was assembled. There was one man posted outside on guard, and the rest were inside. Megan's team of fifteen had been hastily augmented, and she now headed a group of twenty-five. As she gave the command, they spread out, creeping quietly through the darkness.

Colby led the group, moving ahead well on his own; his objective the guard. The man was smoking, silhouetted in the edge of a spotlight that was trained on the parking area in front of the building. Even in the darkness, from his position behind a building, Colby could see that the man appeared nervous. He shifted from foot to foot, turning and looking around constantly, drawing agitatedly on his cigarette. Colby had to cross an open space between the adjacent buildings to get near him, and the man's watchfulness was making that impossible. He flipped open his cell and spoke quietly. "I'm gonna need a distraction if I'm going to get close."

David's voice came over the line. "You got it. When?"

"Give me two," replied Colby. He crept around the building and positioned himself at the open space. As he got there, he could hear the distinctive sound of a dumpster lid banging shut from across the lot, behind a small manufacturing building. The guard froze; staring toward the sound, his back to Colby, and Colby darted across the space and flattened his body against the wall. He was now just feet from the guard, and he crept forward carefully.

Colby was in the shadow of the building, and Megan could just barely see his dark form from her position. Suddenly, that form darted forward and a baton came down hard, delivering a blow to the guard's head. Colby grasped the neck of the man's shirt as he struck, and eased him to the ground.

Megan spoke softly into her headset. "Okay, team, move into position." The dark figures crept around the building, concentrating at the exits. Megan moved in with them, and gave the command. "Now. Move!"

There were two exits to the small building, a front and a rear, and they blew open simultaneously with an explosive noise as they were kicked in. It was over within seconds. The remaining six people inside the room were completely surprised. They stood, hands in the air, congregated around a large wheeled container, which held what looked like a massive explosive device.

The team moved swiftly, cuffing the group members and moving them out of the building, and as Megan, Colby and David followed them out, Megan pulled open her cell phone to update Merrick. "Site's secure. We've got them all. Your intelligence was right; it appeared they were assembling a bomb."

There was silence for a minute, as she listened. "Yes sir." She looked up as bomb squad vans pulled into the complex, headed their way. "Yes, they're here now."

She hung up, and looked at Colby and David. Colby was staring at the bomb through the doorway, his face white. "Merrick had the bomb squad standing by. We're to remain outside the building." She broke off as the squad members poured out of their vehicles wearing Hazmat suits, and they stepped back as the group swarmed past them into the building. From their position, they could see the squad surround the bomb, and one of them began to approach it.

Megan frowned a bit, and looked around her. Her team had secured the terrorists; including the still unconscious guard, and were already pulling away in vehicles. There was still a lot of activity in the lot, however, as other members of the teams pulled vans around for transport. "You'd think the bomb squad would wait until the area cleared before they started," she said.

Colby was still staring through the doorway. "I don't think it would matter," he murmured.

David frowned at him. "Why?"

"They couldn't get far enough away," said Colby quietly. "I'm not positive, but I think that's a nuclear bomb."

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 16


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

Mahir stared at the pink glow on the horizon with narrowed eyes, and snapped his phone shut with irritation. He had been trying to reach Asif for the last hour with no success. They had been driving back and forth up Highway 2 for the better part of the night, stopping occasionally when they could, trying without effect to get the professor to talk. His condition had steadily declined; he was now barely conscious, only rousing when the pain hit, writhing weakly; gasping and moaning, with no more energy to scream. He was near death, and Mahir had finally conceded the fight; he would get no information from him.

Mahir did not accept defeat graciously, however; he was not accustomed to failure, and he was filled with rage at the man in the back seat. That rage was fueled by hatred; that the man was a Jew and an infidel only rubbed salt into the wound. He could see a dirt road coming up on the right, winding off into the slowly lightening desert. "Pull off here," he commanded tersely.

The SUV bumped its way alone along the rough road for a mile and a half; the sedans had pulled over on the highway, waiting for them. The SUV stopped in a field of spiky agave plants, still dark, in shadow from a ridge of hills. Mahir flung open his door, and stepped angrily from the vehicle. He wrenched open the back door, and barked, "Take him out. We are finished with him."

The men looked at each other, and the brief hesitation that followed this abrupt change in plan was too much for the now furious Mahir. He grasped Charlie's collar roughly and dragged him out on the dusty earth and to the side of the road, which was little more than a dirt track. He pulled the limp body next to a huge agave plant and kicked it savagely, then strode back to the vehicle, where his men stood waiting uncertainly.

One of the men spoke tentatively, his hand on his pistol. "Should we not finish him?"

Mahir opened the door to the vehicle and climbed in. "He is an infidel dog, and will die like one in this desert. A bullet is too good for him. He will be dead within hours, perhaps less. Leave him." He slammed the door shut, and the men looked at each other; then climbed in. The SUV turned and then rolled away, the tires crunching on the gravel. The body lay unmoving amidst the agave plants, their large spikes rising into the dimness like strange, terrestrial octopi, dark against the grayness of the pre-dawn sky.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Megan and Colby sat wearily at the conference room table, roughing out preliminary reports from the night's raid. Half-finished cups of lukewarm coffee were scattered across the surface; their unappetizing contents ignored by the agents as they pressed ahead with their task. David had just stepped out, and now he rejoined them, bearing fresh steaming paper cups of coffee.

"Thank God," said Megan wearily, and accepted hers with both hands, closing her eyes as she sipped.

They sat in silence for a moment, contemplating the events of the last twenty-four hours, lost in their own thoughts. David was the first to disrupt the stillness that descended. "I still can't get over that what Charlie was working on was right here in L.A. A nuclear bomb – it's unbelievable."

Megan spoke softly. "Charlie must have held out. They really seemed caught off guard. Although someone must have given them the orders to move…" Her voice trailed off, and they were silent again, their hearts heavy.

Colby rose suddenly and strode to the TV in the conference room, and flipped it on. "Merrick said they would release announcements to the press as soon as they could," he said, then stopped as the screen came up, with the trailer "Breaking News" running across the bottom.

The anchor of one the national news stations was standing in front of the White House, already reporting on the events of the evening, and as they listened, their expressions turned incredulous. "Holy shit," breathed Colby, as he stared, transfixed. "It wasn't just in L.A. – holy shit."

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Alan crossed the room, paper in hand, and flipped on the television. It was already tuned to CNN; he had left it there the night before. He stopped and watched, frozen, as the "Breaking News" logo came up.

The anchor was speaking. "…all told, a total of twenty five terrorist cells in twenty-five major cities across the United States. They were rounded up in the pre-dawn hours in one of the most massive anti-terrorist offensives ever in this country. The U.S. teams, acting on information by the NSA and led by the FBI, carried out a pre-emptive strike; apparently capturing many of the cell members as they readied nuclear bombs. The latest word we have is that five of those were actual nuclear bombs; the rest of them were determined to be "dirty bombs." We can only imagine the unbelievable destruction, the loss of life; that these devices would have generated. We go now to Washington, where our correspondent is waiting for a Presidential address that is to begin any moment now…"

The paper spilled on the floor, forgotten. "Oh my God," whispered Alan, as the information registered, and he backed up against the chair and sat, without even realizing he was doing so. "Charlie – oh, my God."

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don and Garcia pulled into Sonoyta at seven. They had caught a few hours sleep in a small hotel near Los Vidrios, and were up before dawn. It was too early for cantinas to be open, and Don followed Garcia into a small café, redolent with the smell of chilies, coffee, and cigarette smoke. The smell seemed oppressive to Don, inescapable, cloying, almost as heavy as the weight of his own guilt. They got coffee, and sat at a small table. Garcia's eyes rested on a man across the room, dressed in a police uniform. "Give me a minute," he murmured.

He got up and approached the man with a smile, discreetly showing the officer his badge. "Buenos días," he said cheerfully, and sat in a chair opposite the man.

Their conversation was in Spanish, and although Don had a reasonable grasp of the language from his days in Albuquerque, a lot of time had passed since then, and his skills had become decidedly rusty. The dialogue between the men was too rapid and too quiet for him to pick up anything. He looked up at Garcia as he returned; a question in his eyes.

"Let's go," said Garcia quietly. He waited until they were in the car and moving to continue. The officer had come out behind them and pulled ahead, and Garcia swung in behind him. Don waited impatiently for him to speak.

"The officer tells me there was a white SUV here last night, along with two dark sedans, at a house that is usually unoccupied on the edge of town. He saw them himself; he just got off his shift. He's calling in for permission to take us there."

Don's heart leapt. "Are they still there?"

Garcia shook his head. "They left sometime after two a.m." He turned down a rough side street, and followed the officer down to the end, to a small isolated house. Don's heart thumped painfully as they approached, both in hope and fear at what they would find.

The tension mounted as he noted the tire marks leading from just beyond the cracked stone walkway to the dirt road. He could clearly see where the vehicles had parked and the marks left behind as the wheels turned in the dusty ground when they left. The two rickety steps that led up to the porch creaked loudly under their feet and grated in Don's ear, jarring his nearly frayed nerves.

A moment later, the three of them were inside, through the kicked-in door, weapons drawn. The house was still, empty. The officer headed for the kitchen, and Don carefully pushed open a door to a back room and stopped, standing silently.

Garcia came up behind him and looked over his shoulder, taking in the single wooden chair in the center of the room, and the ropes and scraps of duct tape on the floor beneath it. He glanced at Don, and sympathy flashed in his eyes. "They were here, amigo," he said softly, gently clapping a hand on Don's shoulder. "We're on the right track. We'll find him – I have a feeling about this."

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Xochitl Enriquez rode slowly up the track in her cart, pulled by a donkey. Her sons walked beside, baskets on their arms. It was near nine, and the sun was already hot. They had harvested agave for two hours already, and they would soon leave; the heat would be too unbearable. Her eyes shone sharply in her wizened face, looking for landmarks to tell her where they had left off so they could return to the right spot that evening.

She almost missed the body. They _had_ missed it on the way up the track; it was tucked in under a large agave plant, and could only be seen from this angle. She uttered a soft exclamation and pulled sharply on the reins, staring. Her sons, Raul and Armando, stopped and looked at her, then followed her gaze. At eighteen and twenty, they were the youngest of her ten children.

Raul protested as his mother climbed stiffly down from the cart. Dead bodies in the desert usually meant one thing - drugs. "Mama, leave him alone."

She ignored him, waddling, bent over, to the figure. Just as she bent down and peered at him, he stirred weakly, his breath rasping. She started; "Madre Dios!" then crossed herself, defensively. She stood and looked back at her sons, defiantly. "He is alive."

They stepped forward, and Armando scowled. "So, leave him. We will tell the police when we return."

Xochitl bent again and peered at the man. He was young, and seemed very, very sick. His stubbled cheeks were pale, his breathing weak. "No," she said. "He will not last in this sun. We will bring him with us."

Raul objected. "No, mama. That will only bring trouble."

She straightened, her eyes flashing. "Have I taught you nothing? How can you leave a dying man? Do you think our Lady will be there for you, when you need her, if you ignore him?"

They exchanged an abashed glance, feeling a flutter of religious superstition at her words. Armando, the oldest, spoke with resignation to Raul. "Take his arms. I'll get his legs."

Xochitl nodded with satisfaction, as they gently lifted the man and laid him in the cart. They were good sons, both of them.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Mahir paced along the side of the road. At Asif's call, he had instructed his man to pull over, and had stepped out to take it. He wanted privacy for the conversation; it was humiliating to admit failure to Asif in front of his men.

"We were unsuccessful," he began, only to be cut short by Asif.

"You have not seen the news?"

Mahir responded with bewilderment. "What news? We are in Mexico; we have been traveling all night…"

"It is over," responded Asif flatly. "Finished."

"What is over?"

"Dr. Eppes must have decoded the information, and passed it on. The U.S. forces raided last night. They took almost all of our people into custody; they have all of the bombs." Asif's voice was strained, and shook as he spoke.

Mahir staggered, on knees suddenly watery. "It cannot be," he whispered.

Asif ignored the response. "You need to dispose of Dr. Eppes, and get flights out of Mexico."

"I have disposed of him already," said Mahir. It was difficult to breathe. Fifteen years, this plan had been in the making. "I left him to die in the desert."

"What?" hissed Asif, his voice icy. "You told me that he knows my name, and Paulson's. Why did you not kill him?"

"I don't know if he knows them; he may not have understood. He was nearly dead," protested Mahir. "He deserved the most painful death we could give him. He is probably already dead as we speak."

Asif's voice was furious. "You will go back and make certain. Now."

"He is in the desert, near Caborca. We are already two hours from there," objected Mahir weakly.

"Do not argue with me. Your failure to get the information from him in time has cost us years of work. Had we known, we could have moved our people, the bombs. Do not shame yourself with yet another failure. Make certain he is dead." The line went dead, and Mahir staggered, suddenly overcome by the horrible news, and sank to his knees in the dust.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 17


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

Doctor Puentes eyed the patient in front of him, frowning, taking in the strange bruises and burn marks on his body. The young man had been brought into his clinic in Carborca unconscious, but was now stirring weakly on the bed. His eyes were still closed, but his face was twisted in pain. Puentes leaned forward and put his stethoscope on the man's chest. The heartbeat was rapid and weak, the breathing shallow, ragged. The man was obviously near death, but Puentes was not sure why.

Not that he had much at his disposal to perform a diagnosis. His clinic was the only thing that approached a hospital in the area, and his only diagnostic equipment was an X-ray machine. Any lab work needed to be sent to the nearest real hospital in Hermosillo.

An orderly stepped up beside him, along with Dr. Gonzalez. Dr. Gonzalez was an intern who worked primarily in Hermosillo, but visited the clinic for two days every other week as a part of her rotation. She looked at the patient sympathetically, and Puentes grimaced. She would make a good doctor; he was sure. Her only downfall was that she got too emotionally involved in her patients.

He raised questioning eyes at the orderly and the man spoke. "There was no identification; nothing but his clothes."

"Gracias." Puentes sighed, and watched as Dr. Gonzalez inserted an IV. No identification meant no hope of finding family.

"He is in pain." Gonzalez spoke softly. Her plump, attractive face was troubled.

Puentes nodded. "Give him some morphine. At least we can make him comfortable in death."

Gonzalez's head shot up, her face stunned. "But we must find out what is wrong. We are not going to give up without looking?"

Puentes shrugged. "I can find nothing on examination. We can do X-rays, but I can do little else here."

Gonzalez spoke decisively. "Then I will take him back with me to Hermosillo this afternoon."

Puentes pondered that for a moment. Gonzalez had transported an elderly patient back to Caborca in an ambulance on Tuesday. It would be empty for the ride back, except for her and the driver. "Where will you take him?"

Gonzalez looked at him. She worked at the Centro Internacional De Medicina Avanzada, the better of the two hospitals. The indigent usually went to Hospital General, the Sonoran state hospital. She would not have a choice, really. "Hospital General."

Puentes nodded. "They at least have more equipment, if he makes it that far." He stepped over to a locked cabinet and unlocked it, removing a dose of morphine, and handed it to her. She inserted into the IV, and they stood and watched, waiting for it to take effect.

Minutes went by, far longer than Puentes would have expected, and the morphine still seemed to produce no results, other than to lower his patient's respiration rate. The man still stirred weakly, his face twisted with pain, moaning periodically. Puentes frowned, and as he looked up, he caught Dr. Gonzalez's eye. She looked equally puzzled. "Should we give him another dose?" she asked.

Puentes hesitated. He was concerned about the morphine's effect on his patient's respiration rate; more would make that situation worse. If the man was a heroin addict, he would have a high tolerance to opiates, such as morphine. But why would the drug have an effect on his respirations, and not on the pain? It made no sense. Puentes shook his head. "Let's try sedation, instead."

Moments later, the patient had finally slipped into unconsciousness, and Dr. Gonzalez breathed a sigh of relief. She couldn't stand to see someone in such pain; she knew it was something she would have become used to, if she wanted to continue as a doctor, but it tore at her. She stood there long after Puentes had left, watching over her sleeping patient, wondering who he was, and how he had come to be there.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don trailed Garcia into the cantina in San Emeterio slowly, his eyes taking in the small bar and its denizens reflexively. Even though his mind was elsewhere, years of practice at noting his surroundings made his observations automatic, just as they had been at the house in Sonoyta. Almost absently, he registered the occupants, their ages, what they were wearing, who was smoking, who was drinking, who ignored him, who returned his gaze, and what their state of mind appeared to be. All of it was done in a flash, carried out with a disinterested glance here, a flicker of the eyes there, as they took a table. It was instinctive; an agent's behavior, and would forever be a part of him.

None of it registered in his conscious mind, however; that was fixed on Charlie. He couldn't remove the pictures of his tortured brother from his brain, and they segued into other memories from the year – of Charlie after his attacks by Mansour in Los Padres, of his brother's subsequent battle with post-traumatic stress, that led to addiction, near drowning, and finally, most horrifyingly, his psychotic break.

The images were consuming him; try as he might, Don couldn't shake them. He had spent a good part of the ride in silence, enveloped in a depression that was slowly being replaced by anger – anger at Mansour, anger at Edgerton, who had betrayed him at Los Padres, anger at Charlie's current captors, and at the traitor in the NSA, whoever he was, that had put his brother in this position. The injustice of it all ate at him, fueling the anger, creating an unbearable tension inside.

Added to the tension was the fact that he felt that he was doing little to contribute at this point. Garcia knew the territory and the language; it was natural that he would take the lead in questioning. He insisted that Don's presence made them appear more like turistas, a Mexican showing his American pal the countryside, and that it put the people around them at ease. To Don, it was rankling; the agent in him was stymied, relegated to waiting and watching Garcia. It left time for the brother in him to think, to remember the horror of the last two days. As the waiter set a bottle of tequila and two shot glasses down on the table, Don realized that Garcia was talking, and with an effort, he wrenched his mind away from his thoughts.

"Many Americans think that Jose Cuervo is good tequila," Garcia was saying. "If you say that to a Mexican, he will laugh at you." He indicated the short square bottle in front of him. "Don Julio, now that is good tequila. There are others, even better, but we need to watch our expenses at least a little."

He grinned and poured them a shot. '_Eppes looks like he could use one of these_,' he thought. '_More than one, for that matter_.' He raised the shot glass, and his eyes went suddenly serious. "To your brother," he said softly.

Don looked up defensively at the salutation, searching for something flippant or disrespectful in Garcia's eyes, but he saw only respect and concern mirrored there. He lifted his glass in return, silently; then took a swallow. It was smooth, and cold, not like the harsh tequila he had tasted in the past. Even with the lump in his throat, the rest of the shot went down easily. Garcia poured them another round and then stood, picking up his shot glass. "Our third man is going to meet us here," he said quietly. "I'm going to circulate a little before he gets here, and see if any of these hombres know anything."

Don had completely forgotten that there was a third man joining them. He dimly remembered Merrick telling him that, and a flicker of curiosity flared briefly, but Garcia stepped toward the bar, and Don let it die. The sense of helplessness that had pervaded his mind seemed to take hold more firmly as he thought, _'It doesn't matter how many of us there are if we can't find Charlie.'_

He tossed down the second shot, seething with anger and frustration, and watched Garcia conversing easily with two middle-aged men at the bar. He picked up snatches of the conversation here and there, but even without understanding any of it, he could tell by Garcia's mannerisms that he wasn't hearing anything that would help them. He poured himself another shot. Nothing could help them; nothing could help Charlie. He gulped the third shot, and ran a hand over his face. _Screw this – all of it._

It seemed like only moments had passed, but it was actually closer to a half hour before Garcia came back to the table. He had managed to engage each of the bar patrons in casual conversation, that he led skillfully around to the topic of visitors to the town, but with no results. Eppes seemed to be alert, watching the passing motorists and pedestrians through the window, but his hands and his silence gave him away as he fumbled absently with his shot glass. Garcia glanced at the tequila bottle, which was approaching half-empty, and raised his eyebrows.

"Hey, compadre," he said. His face was wreathed in a smile, but there was concern in his eyes. "Better slow down on that stuff. Even good tequila will come back to bite you if you drink too much."

Don sat back in his chair, and pushed away the shot glass with irritation. It slid across the table, and Garcia stopped it with an adept hand. Don looked away from him, toward the bar. "This whole thing sucks," he said thickly.

Garcia shot a quick look around them, and spoke quietly, trying to placate him. "Yeah, it does, man. You need to have faith. We'll find him."

Don turned away from the bar and looked again at Garcia. The man had a steady hope in his eyes that Don ached to latch onto. The vision of Charlie tortured and writhing in unimaginable pain reasserted itself, and he shook his head to clear the image from his mind. Garcia watched him as he shifted unsteadily in his chair and said, "I think we need to get some food into you."

"Yeah, whatever," muttered Don, and he hunched over the table, propped on his elbows. '_You need to get a grip, Eppes,' _he told himself. Getting drunk and wallowing in moroseness wasn't going to help his brother. He was a highly trained agent; it was about time he started acting like one.

Just as he concluded that he needed to begin to get his thoughts under control he heard someone enter through the front door. His head lifted automatically as a figure appeared in the doorway, and paused. Don's jaw dropped; then pure hatred flashed into his face. Garcia turned in surprise to see what was generating the reaction, and looked straight into the dark eyes of Ian Edgerton.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Paulson looked at the map on the table of the hotel room, his mind working on ways to separate himself and his team from Conway's. They had flown in to Chihuahua and were meeting at a hotel, preparing search plans before they hit the road. The TV was on, spitting out a broadcast in Spanish, which was indecipherable to most of them. Something on it caught the attention of one of Conway's men; and he stopped and stared. Paulson glanced at his man Avilar, who spoke Spanish. Avilar was looking directly back at him, his eyes filled with an unspoken message.

Conway looked at his man, then at the screen. "What is it?"

They all turned, and took in the background shot of the President speaking. Conway's man stood speechless. "What in the hell is it?" asked one of the other men crossly. "Turn it to Goddamn CNN or something."

Paulson's phone rang, and he glanced down at the number. Asif. Conway's phone rang just seconds later; and Conway looked at it, then up at Paulson. "Tompkins," he said.

Paulson nodded and quietly excused himself, stepping out of the room. Conway followed him out, already speaking on his phone, and Paulson moved away from him as he answered. "Paulson."

Asif spoke from the other end. "You have heard the news?"

"A broadcast just came on in our room, but it was in Spanish. What's going on?"

"It's over," said Asif. "The U.S. forces raided last night. They have almost all of our people, all of our bombs."

Paulson paled, and put out a hand, touching the brick wall to steady himself. "What?"

"Apparently Eppes knew everything, and managed to get them the information. Your judgment that Tompkins was unaware was incorrect."

Paulson said nothing, his stomach churning. The original plan had been for twenty-five nuclear bombs. During the course of project, they had found it impossible to get that much weapons grade uranium, and had to settle for five, making the remainder dirty bombs. What they had managed to accomplish was still a mind-blowing, impressive feat. Paulson had facilitated all of the false inspections at seaports, at borders, to allow the smuggling of the uranium, supplies, and equipment. All of the risks he had taken, the work he had put into this for fifteen years was gone. And so was his payoff, he was sure. "We will regroup, and try again," he said, trying sound confident, instead of desperate.

Asif snorted. "Now what we need is what you call 'damage control.' I know you are on assignment to find Dr. Eppes. The idiot Mahir left him for dead near the town of Caborca. I have sent him back there, but I need you and your team to travel there to meet him. We need to be sure he is dead – Mahir says that there is a chance that he knows your name and mine."

"What was he thinking?" snapped Paulson. He stole a glance over his shoulder. Conway was still on the phone. "I'll try. I need to ditch Conway and his team somehow."

"That is your problem. Do not fail. If you manage this successfully, I may be able to get some of your money released to you. Of course, if you and Mahir fail, and Dr. Eppes lives; you will have other problems."

The line went dead, and Paulson closed his phone and turned, as Conway shut his and walked toward him. They wore identical stunned expressions. "Did you hear?" asked Conway. At Paulson's nod, he continued, "Do you believe that shit? They almost pulled it off. We've got to find this Dr. Eppes. We owe him a big one."

"I just got some information from a contact," said Paulson quietly. "I've got a lead; I'm not sure how solid it is – but they may have been seen around Caborca."

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 18


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

Don's voice shook. "That's our third man?" he asked incredulously, his face still contorted with rage, his eyes glued to Edgerton. He rose to his feet, his hands balled into fists. "That's who they sent?"

Garcia looked at him, then back at Edgerton, completely floored by Agent Eppes' reaction. Before he could rise from his seat, or even get his head back around, he saw a flash of movement, as Eppes charged the door.

Edgerton saw him coming, and with a quick glance at the bar patrons, took two large steps backward, onto the shaded porch. Better to take this outside.

He thought he was prepared for the rush, but he underestimated the pent up rage, fueled by tequila. Don barreled into him, straight through his grasp, and they tumbled off the porch together, Ian hitting the ground hard on his back, with Don on top of him. A fist connected hard with Ian's face. "You son of a bitch!" swore Don, raising his fist again.

Edgerton grabbed Don's left arm and twisted outward, straightening it painfully and forcing him to lean away. A swivel of his hips and he was out from underneath, and they scrambled to their feet as Garcia rushed up from behind, and grabbed Don's arm. "Hey, cool down, man. We don't need this scene."

Edgerton circled around, and Don circled with him, pulling his arm impatiently out of Garcia's grasp. "What are you doing here?" he sneered at Edgerton.

Ian held up a hand. "I'm just here to help."

"Help, my ass," retorted Don angrily. Rage was rising in his face again. "Do you have any idea what you put him through, you asshole?"

"Yeah, I know," said Ian quietly. In fact he did; he had heard about Charlie's struggles from Merrick.

"Bullshit!" Don exploded, and he lunged at him again. Ian managed to keep his feet for a few steps this time, and they staggered into an alleyway between the bar and an adjoining building. There was a thud as they hit a wall, then a clatter as they tumbled into a trashcan.

'_At least they're off the street, out of view_,' sighed Garcia to himself. Several bar patrons had spilled out onto the porch to watch, and he glared at them, and flexed his impressive arms. "Go back inside," he said in Spanish. "It's just a fight. There is Don Julio on our table, help yourselves."

Faced with a menacing young man on the outside, and good cold tequila on the inside, the decision was easy, and they filed obligingly back into the bar. Garcia tossed a glance up and down the quiet street and stepped to head of the alley.

Eppes and Edgerton were in the middle of a no-holds-barred, all-out brawl. Edgerton had started out merely trying to defend himself, but after a few painful blows, anger of his own flared, and he began to fight back. They bounced off walls, grappling, charging;

exchanging vicious punches.

Don ignored the pain of the blows. All of the pent up pain from the last thirty hours drove his fury; he felt nothing; he was consumed by the desire to inflict damage to anyone who had hurt his brother. Still, Edgerton could hit, and his fists took their toll. Eventually, they parted; both of them gasping; spent, tottering toward opposite walls and leaning on them for support, staring at each other.

Ian wiped a trickle of blood creeping down the side of his face, and slid down the wall to a sitting position. "If it's any consolation, I accept full responsibility for what happened to him," he said, still breathing heavily, his eyes locked on Don. "Both during and after Los Padres. Merrick told me; I know what he went through."

Don felt his rage begin to subside with the receding adrenaline, and grief swelled in him as the anger ebbed. He pushed himself awkwardly away from the wall. "You can't," he said, his face twisted with pain. "You can't possibly know." He staggered away from them down the alley, his back to them, and stood with his hands on his hips, head bent, chest heaving, fighting for control.

Garcia stood looking at the two of them, wondering what on earth Merrick had gotten him into.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Dr. Maria Gonzalez stood in the crowded hallway of Hospital General's emergency area with her patient, who lay on a gurney. They had been waiting along with many others, who were lined up in the hallway in various states of misery, waiting to be seen. Her supervisor would have told her that this was not part of her job; this was not her hospital, but he didn't know she was here. She wasn't supposed to return to Hermosillo until evening, and wasn't due back to her job until morning.

She watched the staff moving among the patients with rising frustration. She had tried waylaying doctors, begging to get her patient seen, to no avail. She was thankful that he had arrived with an IV, but during the wait, it had emptied. He was still badly dehydrated, and she had bullied and cajoled the nurses until she got a new bag of saline, but no one would give him sedation without admitting him. She had switched the bags herself, and watched anxiously for signs that the sedative had worn off.

Those signs were beginning to surface now. Her patient had begun to twist in his bed, and now moans where coming from him, with more strength than she would have expected, given his condition. His eyes fluttered open briefly, and she looked at him, curiosity overriding anxiety, trying to see what he looked like awake.

A sharp voice came from behind her. "Find some way to silence him."

She whirled, dark eyes flashing, to confront a tall lean man; distinguished looking, with gray at the temples. His tag said that he was a surgeon, but she didn't care. She snapped back. "Get him admitted and get him a room and sedation, and he will be quiet."

Dr. Aguero eyed her with interest, taking in the pleasant curves, the full yet beautiful face; the intelligent eyes. An intern, he surmised, a fiery one. He was seized with a sudden urge to be chivalrous, to see where it got him. "Let me see what I can do," he murmured, and strode away.

Moments later, they were wheeling her patient into a room on the third floor, and a doctor bustled in behind them, immediately. "I am Doctor Torres," he said. "You arrived with the patient? What is wrong with him?"

"We don't know. He was brought in to the clinic in Caborca this morning. He is in obvious pain, but they have nothing but X-ray there. I have films with me, but they appear negative other than cracked ribs. He does have bruises, and burn marks."

Torres pulled away the sheet, lifting the gown, and looked at the nude body underneath it, eyeing the strange marks with a frown. The man twisted and moaned, and he let the gown and the sheet drop.

"Please," said Dr. Gonzalez, "can you get him a sedative?"

"I already called for it," said Torres. "Dr. Aguero requested it on your behalf." He frowned, looking at the patient. "Why not morphine?"

Maria shook her head. "It does not seem to work." A nurse bustled in with a syringe, and Torres stepped around to load it into the IV. "You must have some influence," he said, glancing at Gonzalez. "The chief of surgery doesn't jump for just anyone."

'_Chief!_' thought Maria, thinking with sudden discomfort of her abrupt words to Aguero. Torres fished in the pocket of his white coat as he watched his patient, and handed a card to her. "He told me to give you his card, and he said if you need anything you are to call him." He smiled at her as she blushed. "Of course, you should ask me first. I would not like him to hear that I did not take care of you and your patient."

Her blush deepened, and she avoided his eyes, focusing on her patient, who had begun to relax. His eyes drifted open, unexpectedly, and she found herself looking into them. "Who are you? What is your name, Senor?" she asked, bending over him.

Charlie stared groggily at the stranger in front of him, trying to marshal his thoughts. He heard her speak, but he couldn't understand her. Ordinarily, he would have recognized the inflections and speech patterns of Spanish, although he didn't speak it, but his mind was riddled with pain and fatigue, and the sedation was making it foggy. He stared back at her, still trying to decipher what she had said and to form words of his own, as the sedative pulled him under.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Paulson sat in a parking lot behind a municipal building in Caborca, waiting and watching. They had arrived the evening before, and he had immediately found an excuse to get away, and called Mahir. He was hoping for a report that Mahir had found Eppes dead, or had finished him off, and instead had gotten the alarming news that the professor was gone. Mahir and his men had already been in town, making discreet inquiries, trying to find out who had found him, and if he was still alive.

Paulson knew that Conway would be doing the same thing, and to play along, so would he and his men. He had advised Mahir to pull his men out, but to stay nearby; they couldn't afford to cross paths with Conway's people. Knowing that Eppes was gravely ill, Paulson focused his men on the few doctors and the one medical facility in town.

By the time they had reached the clinic, it was six in the evening, and the doctor and daytime staff had gone. In response to their questions, the woman at the desk told them that there was no such patient there, and she had no idea whether or not one had come and gone during the day. She gave them the doctor's cell phone, but the man didn't answer. They had no recourse but to wait until morning, and to continue asking questions in the café's and bars.

It was now dawn, and Paulson had arranged a face-to-face meeting with Mahir. As the white SUV pulled into the lot, he stepped from his vehicle. Mahir opened his door and stood, glancing at Paulson and then around him. He stepped forward, alone, but Paulson could see other men in the vehicle.

It was the first time they had met in person, and Paulson eyed the man across from him. Mahir was tall, bearded, with longish dark hair. His dark eyes glittered with something that Paulson couldn't place, but he seemed tense, strung out. He looked the picture of a Middle Eastern religious fanatic, on fire with zeal for jihad.

Mahir, too, eyed the man in front of him, curiously. Paulson was an imposing presence – over six feet tall, fit, with sandy hair, and piercing, cold blue eyes. He knew that Paulson and his men had been out looking the night before. "Did you find anything?"

Paulson shook his head. "Nothing. One of my men will visit the clinic this morning, as soon as it opens. If we find nothing there, we will need to start expanding our search outside the town limits." He looked at Mahir. "How sure are you that he knows our names?"

Mahir shrugged. "I am not sure at all. I used them in front of him, yours once, Asif's more than once. I had assumed he would not catch them in the midst of the Farsi. He may still have not caught them; his spoken Farsi was barely adequate. I am not sure how much he understood."

Paulson nodded. "Well, we have learned that we can't underestimate him." The words were mild, but Mahir took them as criticism.

He lashed out. "You do not think I know that now? You were not there; nothing is apparent with this man. He looks young, naïve, more like a student than a teacher. If you saw him you would swear he would give in easily; what he did defies reason. Anyone would underestimate him."

Paulson raised his hands in a calming gesture. "I did not intend to criticize; I merely meant that we need to proceed as if he knows." He changed the subject, trying to placate the man in front of him. "If we find him, I may need your help with another problem. If I am unable to find a good excuse to separate from Conway and his men, we will need to deal with them. If we do it right, we can make them look like the people responsible for his death, and eliminate them at the same time."

Mahir nodded. "I am listening." He fell silent as Paulson talked, and the rising sun crept over the building tops.

At eleven, Conway and Paulson strode into the clinic, behind two of their men, selected for their ability to speak Spanish. They had been there earlier, only to find that the doctor was making house calls in the morning, and would not be in until eleven. Paulson had been hoping to just send in his man Avilar. Information was power; the more he had and the less Conway possessed the better. Conway insisted that he and his man be there, however, and so Paulson came too, to make sure he heard any information first hand. Avilar had made a request of the receptionist, and now they watched as a doctor stepped out into the waiting area.

Doctor Puentes glanced at the NSA badges in front of him. He addressed the man who spoke to him, the one whose badge said 'Avilar.' "What is it you need to know?"

Avilar replied, showing him a photo. "We are looking for this man. It is a matter of national security for our government, and we have approval from your government to conduct this search. We were told that he may have been in this area. He was injured; perhaps he was brought here?"

Puentes paused, wondering how far he should extend patient confidentiality. They were not asking for medical information…

Avilar pressed, gently. "It is for his own safety. He was abducted; we are trying to bring him back to the United States."

Puentes nodded. "He was here. He was brought in yesterday by some workers in the agave field. He was near death, and there was little I could do for him here. We transferred him to Hospital General in Hermosillo."

Avilar turned and translated quickly for the two men behind him, and Puentes saw excitement appear on their faces. Avilar turned back. "Did he say anything about how he came to be here?"

Puentes shook his head. "As I said, he was near death; he wasn't speaking. He was in a great deal of pain; I gave him a sedative. It would have been enough to put him under until he arrived in Hermosillo."

"And what time would that have been?"

"Probably mid to late afternoon, depending on how fast the ambulance traveled."

Avilar turned and translated again, and then turned back. "We have no other questions. Thank you. You have been very helpful."

Puentes gave a brief nod, and watched them go with relief. He wasn't sure why, but they had made him uncomfortable. Or perhaps, he thought, the relief was merely generated by the fact that his patient had people looking out for him after all. The poor man was no longer an unknown. Dr. Gonzalez would be pleased.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 19


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

Merrick hung up the phone and rubbed his forehead wearily, as his mind processed the report from Garcia. The group had been making their way along Highway 2 into Mexico, and had uncovered only the one lead in Sonoyta, which had so far led nowhere. What was even more disturbing was Garcia's account of the brawl between Eppes and Edgerton, and Don's apparent loss of control.

Garcia assured him that they had settled down, that Eppes had seemed to have gotten it out of his system, but overall, it was not the best of reports. At first, Merrick had second-guessed himself, wondering if he should have sent Eppes after all, but upon reflection, he realized that he himself was at least partly to blame.

He knew the history between Eppes and Edgerton, and he had in effect, blindsided Don by not telling him Ian would be part of the team. There was a good reason for that; Merrick suspected that Eppes would have had issues with that decision. He smiled grimly to himself; apparently, he had called that one right. If he knew both men, and he thought he did, he was sure they would put their differences aside to concentrate on such a critical case, especially one that involved Charles Eppes.

The phone rang again and he picked it up, straightening as he heard Tompkins' voice.

"Yes, Bob."

"Walt, we've got another issue. One of the cell members from Chicago had decided to spill his guts on what he knows of the plans. He's American born, and he knows he's up for treason charges, so he's decided to cooperate. Apparently, there was a phase two to their plan. After they detonated the bombs, they knew that the remainder of the population would try to flee the cities. In most of our big metropolitan areas, that would result in gridlock on the highways out of town."

Merrick snorted. "Gridlock is a way of life here."

Tompkins continued. "The cell members planned to use stolen emergency vehicles to travel along the shoulders of the highways, and deposit explosive devices containing Sarin gas, as the vehicles sat there."

"Jesus," breathed Merrick.

"We leaned on the other cell members when we found this out, and several of them gave up locations of the vehicles and the gas. Not all of the cells had been able to get vehicles yet. None of the L.A. cell is cooperating, however. We're still working on them, but we need you to get your team working on locating those vehicles and the Sarin. The cell members that were supposed to carry this out are all in custody, but that doesn't mean that others can't step in. We need to get to it before anyone else does."

"Right," said Merrick. He paused for just a moment. "Have you heard anything from your teams in Mexico?" He felt guilty, asking the question, knowing that Tompkins had no knowledge of his own team.

"Not yet," replied Tompkins. "They were in Chihuahua, and heading west toward the towns on Highway 2. That's all I have."

"All right, thank you sir. We'll get on this immediately." They hung up, and Merrick rose wearily from his desk, to inform his overworked team that they were again on full alert, with an urgent assignment.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

About an hour out from Hermosillo, Paulson, who was in the lead SUV, had his driver pull off the highway onto a dirt road. The second SUV slowed, then followed, and a moment later, Paulson's phone rang.

Conway's voice came over the line. "Can I ask where in the hell you're going?"

"I just got a call from my contact. He wants to meet. Apparently he has information from the hospital. He said take the road at kilometer marker 422. You can go on if you want, although he said he didn't mind if you were there."

Conway gave the response that Paulson expected. "No, I'll come. We need to stick together."

They pulled down the road for a good distance until it wound behind some rocky outcroppings. Even at the end of January, the Sonoran desert was hot, and dust rose around the vehicles as they pulled off the side of the road. There was nothing behind the rock formations but additional empty desert.

Conway swung out of his vehicle, followed by his men, stretching and looking around them. He was curious about the contact – who was he, and how had Paulson found him? The man seemed to be several steps ahead of them. He walked past some of Paulson's men, heading for Jeff, who was on his cell phone, and was brought up short by the feeling of a gun barrel at his neck. "What the-?"

Avilar spoke from behind him. "Pull out your weapon slowly, and drop it on the ground."

Conway froze, then his hand crept slowly to his sidearm, and he released it gently from the holster, and bent slightly as he let it drop. Behind him, he could hear similar commands being delivered to his men, followed by the thud-clatter of revolvers on rocky ground. He felt a twist of fear, then anger, and with a clenched jaw, looked at Paulson. "What in the hell is going on here?"

Paulson had shut his phone, and was regarding him expressionlessly. Conway heard approaching vehicles, and then heard them grind to a halt in the rocks. Doors slammed, and several more men joined them. They looked Middle Eastern, and were heavily armed. Conway looked at Paulson as the realization hit him. "You son of a bitch," he rasped, furiously.

Paulson spoke to Mahir. "Have your men use your weapons. If anyone ever finds them, I don't want the ballistics experts to recover bullets that match my people's guns. When you are done, take their weapons, their ID's, their phones and their vehicle. Dump the bodies in that ravine. You will then travel to Hermosillo and stand by, in case I need your support. Do you have the syringes?"

As Paulson was talking, Conway turned his head as much as he dared, and cast a glance out of the corner of his eye. He could see his men surreptitiously scanning the group around them, searching for any weakness in their captors that they could exploit. As Conway's glance traveled, he caught the eye of Patrick O'Hern, a younger agent who was relatively new to the team. He was standing in a relaxed pose, not offering any resistance, but it was a ruse. At that moment, with astonishing speed, O'Hern turned slightly and grabbed his captor's wrist, forcing the gun at his head away from him, toward the ground, as it went off.

The gun's report startled the others, and as their attention was deflected, Conway twisted in an attempt to overcome Avilar. Avilar had apparently had nerves of iron and unparalleled focus, however, because he was ready for Conway. He jerked the neck of Conway's shirt; and pressing the muzzle of his gun deeply into the base of Jim's skull hissed; "Don't move!"

O'Hern and his guard were continuing to struggle for the weapon, locked in a stalemate, and Paulson spoke calmly to Mahir. "Give me your weapon."

Mahir handed it to him without a word, and Paulson stepped over to the struggling men, and put the barrel at O'Hern's head. Patrick froze, and Paulson stood for a split second; then pulled the trigger. O'Hern slumped to the ground, his eyes staring sightlessly at the horizon. Paulson's man, Jensen, stepped back, panting from his struggle with O'Hern, and found himself looking down the barrel of the pistol. He froze in shock, staring at Paulson.

Paulson looked at him coldly. "Failure is not an option." He raised the pistol until it was sighted on Jensen's forehead. Jensen paled and began to tremble, his face beading with sweat. After a long moment, Paulson lowered the weapon. "That is your last screw-up. Don't let it happen again." He turned and walked back to Mahir, handing him his gun. He would have loved to make an example out of Jensen, but the fact was; he couldn't afford to lose any of his men at this point. Also, he would eventually have to account for all of them, when this was over. If he killed Jensen, he would have to come up with a story for Tompkins. Jensen had no idea how fortunate he was.

Mahir accepted the pistol, and handed Paulson a small black case containing the remaining syringes, regarding Paulson with new respect. He turned to his men. "You have heard the directions. We are to use our weapons. Move!" The terrorists stepped up to the captives, moving next to their guards, and leveled their guns at the captives' heads.

Conway stared at O'Hern, stricken, and as he raised his gaze to his men, he realized that their eyes were on him, looking for guidance. For the first time in his career, he had none to give. Paulson's treachery had caught him, all of them, completely off guard.

He watched with hate dawning in his eyes, as Paulson and his men turned and walked coolly back to their vehicle. Business, as usual. And that business was cold-blooded treason. He felt sick, suddenly, for his agents - good men, all of them. He looked at Paulson's retreating back, and prayed to God that someone, somehow, would make the bastard pay.

It was his last thought, as the bullet shattered his skull.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don climbed stiffly, groggily into the back seat of the Buick, almost like he had the afternoon before. After the fight, he had gathered what shreds of composure he had left, and went back into the cantina with Garcia and Edgerton, at Garcia's insistence. The agent felt that they should sit and order food, to give the appearance that they were just compadres who had had a little disagreement; and things were now back to normal. Besides, Garcia said, they needed to eat.

Don had sat and pushed the food glumly around on his plate, his appetite demolished by his seething emotions and the fight with Edgerton, and then followed them out to the vehicle. He had climbed in the back, just as he was doing now, and had promptly passed out in the back seat. He hadn't woken until they got to the next town, Costa Rica. Garcia had checked them into a hotel and insisted that Don stay there and sleep off the tequila, and he and Edgerton had gone out to investigate.

When Don woke again, it was to a knock on the door at nine in the evening, and he staggered out of bed to open it. Garcia had returned with a report; Edgerton was nowhere to be seen. They had found no information in Costa Rica, but Garcia had talked to Merrick. He had then broken the news of the U.S. raids, the terror cells, and the bombs, information which he had gotten from Merrick.

After he left, Don had been wide awake. The news of the horrific plot, and the hours of sleep that he had already had, left him staring at the ceiling for the remainder of night. His mind was a whirling cauldron of lurid visions: of his brother, of terrorists, of torture and destruction. At the back of it all was the growing conviction that he tried to push back into the dark corners of his mind; the belief that it was too late, that Charlie was already dead.

Now it was morning, and he was again in the back seat of the Buick. He had climbed in without a word to either Edgerton or Garcia, his body protesting from the fight the day before, his mind a semi-coherent sleep-deprived stew of despondency. Nothing mattered any more. His brother was dead; he was sure of it. The only thing he would find at the end of this mission was confirmation of that, and the final sorrow that would come with it.

They pulled into Caborca by mid-afternoon. It was a much bigger town than the others, and boasted several cafes and cantinas, and a bustling open air market. It was there that Garcia had headed first. Edgerton and Don trailed along, Don barely aware of the sights and the smells. He was jolted out of his funk as Garcia came trotting back to them and pulled them aside, walking alongside them as he talked.

He spoke with a low voice, but it was tinged with excitement. "One of the farmers said that a family brought in a man from the desert yesterday. They were harvesting agave, and they found him. The description they gave him matches Charlie."

Don's heart lurched, and he almost stumbled. "Alive?"

Garcia looked at him. "He wasn't sure. They brought him to the clinic." They were turning a corner, and he pointed to a building a block down the street. "That's it."

As they entered, cool air greeted them, along with the receptionist. She took one look at them and assumed that they had come for treatment. One of the men had a cut on his forehead and bruise on his cheekbone, and another had a nasty contusion on his jaw. She requested them to sit, but Garcia pre-empted her. "We need to speak with the doctor about a patient who was brought in yesterday."

She looked at them and without responding, picked up the phone. A moment later, a doctor stepped out into the waiting room. He eyed the group suspiciously, taking in the bruises, and Don's rumpled clothing and unshaven face.

Garcia showed him his badge, and pulled out a picture. Don heard the exchange in Spanish, and saw the skeptical look on the doctor's face. His heart sunk. It must have been someone else. Garcia began to argue with him, and the man shook his head vehemently.

Garcia turned to them, and the excitement in his eyes made Don's heart rebound. "He identified him, but he said they transferred him yesterday. He was alive."

Don's head reeled. His brother wasn't dead, he wasn't dead… He felt a steadying hand on his arm, and he shook off the dizziness that had descended on him. He glanced at the owner of the hand, and for the first time since the day before, looked Edgerton in the eye. Ian pulled his hand away, silently.

Garcia was talking. "… won't tell me where he was transferred to. He said there were men from the government in here asking about him this morning, and he told them already. He's getting nervous about giving out more information; he doesn't want to say where they took him."

"What?" asked Don querulously. "He told them and he won't tell us? Who were they?"

Garcia turned and another exchange of Spanish ensued. "All of this attention is making him nervous, and he can't understand why one of our agencies won't talk to the other. He said their badges said NSA." He tried to speak calmly, hoping it would transfer to Eppes. The man looked ready to explode. At that moment, his phone rang.

He raised his hand, and stepped away, mouthing, '_Merrick_.' Don stood were he was, glaring at the doctor, who shifted uncomfortably.

He turned as he heard Garcia's phone snap, only to see him heading toward the door. "I've got it, let's go," urged Garcia over his shoulder. "One of Tompkins' guys called in, and Tompkins called Merrick – your brother's in a hospital in Hermosillo."

Don was after him in a flash, his heart pounding. This time he vaulted into the backseat, stiffness forgotten, looking at his watch. Four o'clock. "How long does it take to get there?"

"About four hours," replied Garcia.

Edgerton spoke quietly. "How much of a jump do they have on us?"

"Five hours," said Garcia, his voice grim.

Don felt his heart thump painfully in his chest. The NSA agents were already there.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 20


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

Dr. Torres flipped through the lab results as he glanced at his patient. The man had improved after a day's rest provided by the sedation and the hydration he had received. His heart rate had regulated to a normal rhythm, and his breathing was also regular. The nurses had been in to clean him up a bit, and had given him a shave. Without the stubble, he looked younger, and Dr. Torres wondered for the tenth time who he was

Once the patient's face was cleaned up, Torres had a picture taken, for law enforcement to circulate. It was standard procedure, but Torres knew that the police would not expend much effort. They had many unidentified patients, and many others who had not made it, in the morgue. Identifying the homeless, the drifters, was not a high priority.

In the meantime, Torres had ordered an MRI, a CAT scan, and carotid and abdominal ultrasounds. He had ordered his own X-rays, as well as an EEG, and had submitted extensive lab work, which had just come back, and offered the only clue to the problem. The lab had identified several substances in his blood, more than one type of poison, and other compounds, including one, a mysterious synthetic neuropeptide, that the lab couldn't categorize.

Torres had done an extensive physical examination, taking pictures of and cataloging the various cuts and bruises, the odd burn marks, and the damaged toes. He had seen torture victims before, men involved in the drug trade, and he was certain that this patient had also been tortured.

Torres frankly was amazed that he had lived through such an ordeal. Apparently the man had also been poisoned, by some exotic cocktail that even his lab couldn't identify. Torres flipped the results shut, and turned for the door, stuffing them in his pocket. He wanted to do some research on neuropeptides.

First though, he would call Dr. Gonzalez, who had phoned him several times that day already, to tell her what he had found. He found himself looking forward to that conversation, and the pleasant thrill of her lilting voice.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don chafed in the backseat. In the last hour he had gone from despair to hope; and from lethargy to frantic impatience. They were only a half hour into the trip, and it felt like hours.

Garcia glanced at him in the rearview mirror. "Try to relax. We might need that energy later." He paused a moment, then spoke, trying to reassure the agent in the back seat. "You know, it was not necessarily our mission to recover him – just to oversee the NSA. We need to let them do their jobs."

"I don't trust them," muttered Don.

Edgerton chimed in unexpectedly. "Neither do I."

Garcia shook his head. "Tompkins is no dummy. He sent two teams for a reason – if one of them is corrupt, the other is there as a check and balance. And that's a big 'if.' I'm sure he picked guys he trusted."

Edgerton was silent. He had learned a lot about trust in the last year, and the conclusion he had come to was that he shouldn't trust anyone, not even himself. Charlie had trusted him, and that faith had nearly killed him. Ian owed Charlie for that, and Don, and would forever owe them, even if neither of them trusted him again. He stared at the road; his unreadable face set stonily toward the horizon, and counted the kilometers as they flitted past.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Roughly an hour later, Paulson sat in the parking lot of Hospital General, and dialed Tompkins. "Bob? Yeah, we got to the hospital, but I lost Conway. It looked like they turned off behind us just as we reached the city. Maybe he's just taking an alternate route. Anyway, we're here, and my team is going in now. I'll call again when we see what we've got. Right, sir."

Paulson snapped the phone shut. He knew that Tompkins' next move would be to put a GPS tracer on Conway's phone. It would show up in Hermosillo, not far from the hospital. Mahir would have the phone, but Tompkins would not know that. If Tompkins dialed, Mahir would not answer. Tompkins would begin to wonder about Conway; the seeds of doubt would be planted…

In the meantime, Paulson had to come up with a plan. If the professor died while Paulson and his team were in charge, it would look suspicious. It would be best if Paulson didn't have to kill him at all. If Eppes truly hadn't picked up their names, it could be avoided, but Paulson would need to question him to know for sure. It would probably be relatively easy to find out – as long as the professor was conscious. As far as the professor was concerned, they were the good guys – Dr. Eppes would have no reason not to talk to them.

It took an interminable forty-five minutes for the hospital to find the professor, using the photograph that Paulson had given them. Apparently the place was full of the destitute, and had more than its share of John Doe's. Finally, a doctor approached their section of the lobby, a man just shy of forty, with a medium build.

Paulson shook the man's hand, and he and his team presented their ID's. Avilar pulled out a picture, and spoke in Spanish. "We are looking for this man, and we have information that he is a patient here."

Torres pulled out his own picture; the one that Paulson had handed to an administrator earlier, and replied in English. "This picture resembles a patient of mine. He is in no condition to talk, however."

He handed the photo back to them, and Paulson took it as he replied. "It is a matter of great urgency for our government, and also for the ultimate well-being and safety of this man. We have reason to believe his life is in danger. I realize that he may be in pain, but if you were to ask him, I am sure he would see the wisdom of answering our questions."

Torres hedged. "He is in intense pain when off sedation. Can this not wait?"

Paulson replied coolly. "I'm afraid not." He glanced around and drew closer to Torres, speaking conspiratorially. "You are aware of the happenings in the United States during the last two days? Of course, this information is extremely confidential, and if asked, you did not hear it from me. This man was directly involved. He was captured and tortured by the terrorists. We still have some unresolved issues, which he may be able to help us with. I understand that this is an unusual request, but these are unusual times."

Torres stared at him. The whole world had heard of the horrific plot to detonate nuclear weapons in the U.S. cities. His patient was part of that? He swallowed hard. "Very well. I will arrange it."

"Thank you," Paulson said, pasting a sincere smile on his face. "We will of course need some privacy."

Torres paused, thinking. "I will bring him down to the first floor. There are some separate, soundproofed rooms, for psychiatric patients." He looked at them. "You will please be brief. He is very weak; he needs to rest. This will take a few moments to arrange, so please be patient."

"Thank you," murmured Paulson, and Torres nodded and turned away, his mind spinning. He needed to clear this with the administrator, and despite what these men had said; he needed to make sure his patient was willing to go through this. He turned back as a thought occurred to him. "What is his name?"

"Eppes," said Paulson. "Dr. Charles Eppes."

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Charlie blinked. There was a wall across from him, and he stared at it; it seemed too much of an effort to do anything else. Blink. Stare. So tired…

He heard the sound of someone moving next to him, and with a huge effort he shifted his eyes. A face came into view, with a white coat beneath it. A doctor. Charlie blinked again, trying to pull his thoughts out of the fogginess. They resisted, like boots stuck in sludge.

"Take some deep breaths," he heard the man say, in a voice with an accent. Okay. Breathing seemed easy enough. He inhaled, and winced as a pain shot through his side. It was brief, though, just a twinge. Not the monstrous, all-encompassing pain. That was gone. There was a constant pain now, his whole body ached, and he was becoming more aware of it as the sedative wore off, but it wasn't the unbearable agony of before.

Big breath. His head began to clear a little, enough for him to wonder where he was. His eyes drifted back to the doctor, who was watching him intently. "Can you tell me your name?"

Name. Now that was a good one. He frowned in concentration, and took another breath. "Charlie. Charles Eppes." His voice sounded strange, thin and strained; half a whisper. He looked back at the doctor, as if expecting him to confirm the answer.

"Charlie, do you know where you are?"

Charlie's eyes wandered around the room for a minute; then he shook his head weakly. He had been riding before this, for a long time. Riding in the back seat of a vehicle, enduring waves of pain that felt as though he were being incinerated from the inside out. He closed his eyes, and his brow furrowed in concentration. An image came back to him. Mansour. No – the other man. The one who spoke Farsi…

His eyes flew open and he stared at the doctor, as the memories came flooding back. The code, the torture, the warehouse, Don – _oh, God, Don_… "No," he whispered, his eyes stinging with tears.

Dr. Torres took his response as the answer to his question. "You are in a hospital in Hermosillo, Mexico. There are some men from your government here to see you. They wish to talk with you. Can you speak with them?"

Charlie stared back at him. "Who – what – organization?" he asked, haltingly.

"Their badges said NSA."

"Tompkins?" asked Charlie, a flicker of hope in his face.

Torres frowned. "I saw no Tompkins." He watched with interest as his patient's face changed; the eyes full of distrust.

"Tell them," said Charlie, stopping to take in air. Since when did he need so much breath to talk? "Tell them I won't talk to them until I talk to Tompkins." He tried to spit out the sentence in one breath, and then grimaced. The effects of the sedative were receding rapidly, and he shifted weakly, uncomfortably. The repeated bombardment of his nerve bundles by the concentrated substance P had left him with a level of constant residual pain, which added to the pain of his injuries.

Torres nodded and left silently, and Charlie closed his eyes. An image of his brother's face came into his mind; it had been his focal point, his life raft for so many of the past hours that it seemed to appear automatically, of its own accord. He felt a sudden surge of sadness return at the thought; that image was all that was left. He thought of his poor father; Alan would be dealing with the funeral, which would probably be closed casket, on his own.

At least his father would be near Don again before he was buried; even though he had been burned, Alan could have one last moment with his brother's physical presence. For Charlie there would be nothing – by the time he returned and was able to move about, nothing would be left but the headstone, and bittersweet memories. The thought overwhelmed him; he felt a rush of grief, and hot tears began to stream from his eyes.

That was how Torres found him, minutes later, silently lying there with his eyes closed, his face wet with tears. "Dr. Eppes," he said softly, and his patient's eyes opened. "Mr. Tompkins is going to call your room momentarily. I will assist you with the phone."

Charlie blinked, trying to clear his eyes, and nodded weakly. The doctor was looking at him with undisguised sympathy. There was a voice behind him, and as Doctor Torres turned, a pretty young Mexican woman in a white coat stepped through the door. She looked at Charlie intently; then said something in Spanish to Torres.

Dr. Torres replied; then spoke in English to Charlie. "Dr. Eppes, this is Dr. Gonzalez. She brought you here from Caborca. I believe you owe her your life."

Dr. Gonzalez blushed, and looked at Charlie with an abashed smile. "No," she said to him. Her English was better than Torres'. "Others helped you, including Dr. Torres." Her expression changed to concern as she took in the pinched look on Charlie's face, the wetness on his cheeks. "You are still in pain." It was a statement, not a question, but Charlie nodded.

The phone shrilled, and Torres reached to answer it. "Yes, this is Dr. Torres. Yes, sir, he is here. One moment, please." He started to hand the phone to Charlie, but as he saw his patient's weak attempt to move his arm, he kept a grip on the phone, and guided it to Charlie's ear.

"Bob?" asked Charlie.

On the other end, Tompkins' heart leapt as he heard the voice. It was weak, but it was Charlie. "Charlie, thank God," he said. "We're going to get you out of there, as soon as we can. We're arranging to get you home. I can understand that you wanted confirmation before you talked to my men. Jeff Paulson and his team are there. He's going to set up a guard on your room. It's okay to talk to them, do you understand?"

"Yes," said Charlie, but without conviction.

Tompkins continued, and he unconsciously lowered his voice, as if he were sharing a secret in the hallway. "I'm not entirely sure what is going with my other team. They're AWOL right now, and the team leader won't answer my calls. It may be nothing, but if they should show, don't talk to them until you talk to me first. That team leader's name is Jim Conway. I repeat, don't deal with him or his men unless you get the okay from me or Paulson. Paulson should make sure that you won't have to worry about that."

"Okay."

"Charlie – one more thing - you may not have heard – we got them."

"What?" Charlie's forehead puckered in confusion.

"We conducted the raid – we got all of the bombs, and almost every cell member. It was a tremendous feat, and it couldn't have happened without you. On behalf of your country, and your President, I want to extend their thanks. I assure you, we will thank you properly later, but I thought you would want to know."

"I – yes, thanks," said Charlie, stammering as the news sunk in. His determined effort not to talk, not to give in, had been worth it – almost. He listened as Tompkins ended the call, murmuring good-bye, his thoughts still on the news. He had helped save millions of people, he realized. The thought was humbling, and he was grateful, but it was a hollow victory. Millions lived, but the one who mattered most to him was gone.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 21


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

Charlie lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling of the elevator, and tried not to think about the pain. He understood that he would need to remain off any pain medication or sedation while he talked to the NSA agents; he needed to be coherent.

What did seem odd to him was the fact that he was being taken out of his room; at least until they wheeled him out, and he realized that there was another patient in there with him. The other man had been hidden behind a curtain, lying silently even though he was awake. His dark expressionless eyes followed Charlie as he was wheeled out the door.

Charlie supposed that it made sense that they wouldn't want to talk about confidential matters where they could be overheard. Still, Tompkins had said nothing specific about a debriefing when they talked, and he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling he had about this. He was just gun-shy, he chided himself. Not all of the NSA agents were bad. And Tompkins did tell him explicitly it was okay to talk to Paulson and his men. His outlook was probably affected by the pain he was in, and his weakened condition.

The light above the elevator doors read "1," and they opened with a rattle. He was hit by a gust of cold air; the air conditioning was up full blast on this floor, and he shivered. Now he was moving again; there was a pause, then he was pushed down a side hall, then around another corner. Dr. Torres held a door open, and the orderly pushed his gurney into a room.

He was accompanied by both Doctors Torres and Gonzalez, and as the gurney stopped, Torres spoke to Charlie. "It is now 6:00 p.m. They have not been able to give me a time when they will be finished, but I have asked them to be brief. If you are tired, you can tell them, and they will continue later. Dr. Gonzalez has agreed to wait just down the hall at the desk area, if you need her. She will accompany you back upstairs."

Although Torres had already put in a long day, he still had patients to see. Dr. Gonzalez had also worked for most of the day, but had a break until 9:00 p.m., when she was due to return to her hospital. She had agreed to watch over Charlie until he was safely returned to his room, for which Torres was extremely grateful. Although he had cleared the unusual request with his administrator by calling him at home, the situation made him uncomfortable, and he was glad that Gonzalez was there. When he told her so, she had blushed again, and to his embarrassment he had, also. They had stared at each other, just a moment too long, before they broke eye contact. Now, as he left, her gaze followed him out of the door, and he felt it, like warmth from the sun, on his back.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Paulson gathered with his men in the hall, and watched as Torres walked down the short corridor and turn the corner. They were in a sub-hallway off the main hall in an area that housed four private rooms with viewing areas, usually used for patients that needed restraining or observation. Attached to each room was a smaller room with a one way window. It was a perfect setup.

Paulson had experienced a bad moment earlier, when he realized that Dr. Eppes was going to speak privately to Tompkins. He was still uneasy about that conversation, and wondered what had passed between them, but Charlie's agreement to talk to his team had alleviated some of the fear.

"It would be best if I am not in there," Paulson said quietly, looking either way. "I don't want him associating faces and names. He met me once, a couple of years ago, and if he sees my face it may help him remember. There is an observation room next to this one, I will watch from there. Three of you will watch with me; there is no need for any more than two of you in with Eppes." The door opened and Gonzalez came out, and Paulson fell silent.

She looked at them. "I will be just down the hall, toward the morgue. There is a desk area there." She pointed to a sign at the corner that read _Depósito de Cadáveres_ with an arrow to the right, and Paulson nodded.

"We will be sure to get you if he needs you," he said with a smile. His eyes flickered down the corridor to the sign. The morgue. If things went badly, it might end up proving convenient.

Paulson waited until she walked away; then continued his instructions. "When you go in, tell him you are part of Jim Conway's team. If he gets suspicious about any of this, I want the blame to fall on Conway, not us. Sykes and Kirtland, you head up the questioning. Hopefully we get what we need in a few minutes."

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

The room was cold, and Charlie shivered, in spite of the blanket that Dr. Gonzalez had laid over him. The residual pain was increasing the longer he was off sedation, and the chilly air seemed to amplify the effect. He felt tension mounting as he lay there; and when the door opened, his stomach twisted. Relax, he told himself. You're worrying about nothing. His eyes wandered toward the doorway and the hall outside; he was half hoping to see Dr. Gonzalez. The door swung shut. No Gonzalez, just two men.

There was no window, other than one that appeared to be between his room and an adjacent one, and that window was dark. There were sound-deadening tiles in the ceiling. The room reminded him of something, and as he glanced at the bed beside him with its rails and attached restraints, he suddenly remembered with a sickening jolt what it was. It looked like his hospital room, when he had experienced his psychotic break. Windowless, restraints, sound-proofing. A room in the psyche ward. The realization ramped up his discomfort.

Sykes approached him with a smile. "Dr. Eppes, it's good to see you. We were all pretty concerned about you. We just have a few questions that we're hoping you can help us with. Our teams are obviously trying to track down the leaders of the operation."

Charlie nodded, trying to breathe through the pain and calm his flipping stomach, and Sykes continued. "We would like to know if you remember any conversation amongst your captors, particularly names."

Charlie stared at him for a moment. Something about the man was rubbing him the wrong way. He seemed too at ease, he smiled too much. '_Stop it,_' Charlie told himself. '_Just answer the question_.' He tried to concentrate, frowning. His mind, the memories had been muddled by the pain. "The leader, Mahir, kept calling someone on his phone."

He closed his eyes, still frowning. "I'm sorry, it's hazy." He thought hard. "Mohammed. His first name was Mohammed." He opened his eyes and looked at Sykes. The smile was still there, but it looked pasted on, false.

"Good," said Sykes, his tone a little forced. "I want you to know, our team leader, Jim Conway, appreciates this. Can you remember a last name?"

Charlie froze. Conway. This was supposed to be Paulson's team. What in the heck was going on here? He stared back at Sykes, his heart thumping. "I want to talk to Tompkins," he said. His voice sounded more confident than he felt.

Sykes looked at Kirtland. What had just happened? Eppes sounded weak and tired, but had seemed to be cooperating, and now he had suddenly closed up. He looked suspicious, defensive. Sykes glanced at the one-way window, where he knew Paulson was watching. He planted the smile on his face again. "Just a moment, Dr. Eppes."

Sykes stepped out of the room and Paulson opened the door to the observation room and let him in. "Something just spooked him," said Sykes.

Paulson frowned. "I heard. Tell him Tompkins is not available to talk right now, but that he says to go ahead."

Sykes nodded, and slipped back into the room. Paulson watched while Sykes repeated the message, and listened to the professor's statement, that he refused to say anything more until he talked to Tompkins, which was delivered in an adamant tone.

"He's hiding something," murmured Paulson. He turned to his man Jensen. "We can't have him talk to Tompkins again. Eppes may mention Conway, and then Bob will want to talk to Conway and to me, and he'll figure out that there's something odd, when there's still no Conway. There's no sense continuing this charade. Go in there and tell Sykes he's done. We'll have to dispose of him. We'll just need to make it look like an accident."

"What if he told Tompkins what he remembered when they talked?" asked Jensen, voicing Paulson's previous fear. "How do we know what we're coming back to? Or maybe Tompkins is suspicious, and told him something, and that's why he's acting like this."

"Why would he agree to talk, then?" Paulson answered. "Tompkins must have told him it was okay, or he wouldn't be here. Still the way he's acting…something must have made him suspicious. If he didn't say anything to Tompkins before, he would now." He shook his head, staring at Charlie as if he hoped to see inside his mind.

He looked through the window, his thoughts racing. Did Tompkins suspect somehow? Or had the professor told him what he remembered? Maybe Tompkins had told Eppes to play along, to avoid arousing suspicion. If they didn't find out, when they returned to the U.S., they might find themselves walking right into custody, and charges of treason. "We can't kill him until we find out for sure. We need him to talk first."

Jensen snorted. "Good luck with that. Based on what Mahir went through, he's a goddamn clam."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Paulson said quietly, with a tiny smile. He pulled a small black case from his inside jacket pocket. "Mahir gave me these, remember? And really, how much more can he take?" He opened the case, selected one of the two remaining syringes, and handed it to Jensen. "Show him this. Just the threat of it might get him to talk. And if he doesn't, make good on your threat."

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Alan woke with a start in his easy chair, and grimaced as he righted his head. It had hung at an angle as slept, and his neck was stiff. About three hours earlier, Merrick had come in person to the safe house to tell him that Charlie had been found in a hospital in Hermosillo, and that plans were being made to transfer him to the United States. Alan's immediate inclination had been to fly to Hermosillo, but Merrick had convinced him to wait, that perhaps they could get Charlie on a medical flight out of there within hours.

He had given the go-ahead for Alan to return home, however, and had driven him there himself. Alan had stepped through the door with a profound sense of gratitude – gratitude to be home, to be free, but mostly he felt thankfulness that his sons were both alive, and would soon be home. He had no idea what would be in store for them, especially Charlie, as he healed, but they would cross that bridge later. For now it was enough to know they were alive.

He had sunk wearily into an armchair, fatigue suddenly enveloping him after the recent sleepless nights, and although he didn't intend to, he slept. Now he had wakened to near silence, broken only by the sound of the ticking clock, and a feeling of dread that had materialized out of nowhere, which sat on him like a weight. He rubbed his eyes, frowning. He should feel grateful, happy, even thrilled. Where had this anxiety come from? It didn't make sense, and its very presence troubled him. He stood, trying to shake it off, and headed into the kitchen to make coffee. The feeling of foreboding trailed right along with him, like a murky cloud.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 22


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

Charlie glanced uneasily at the two men watching him, and tensed as a third man entered the room. His stomach clenched as the man made a show of holding up a syringe, then laid it down in plain sight on a table. The man left it there, approached Charlie with a smile, and propping himself casually on the bedrail, leaned over him. Charlie stared back at him, his heart pounding, and the man spoke.

Jensen eyed the man in the bed. "Dr. Eppes, you and Director Tompkins had a little conversation earlier. Do you mind telling me what you talked about?"

Charlie spoke cautiously. "Why don't we get him on the phone, and you can ask him yourself?"

Jensen smiled again. "I'm afraid that's quite impossible. Dr. Eppes, when you were in the terrorists' custody, they spoke in front of you, and said the names of some people. We are very interested in whether you remember those names or not, and whether you might have mentioned them to Tompkins."

Charlie's mind worked furiously. If these men were legitimate, they could call Tompkins and get that information. They apparently had a reason to fear what Charlie might have told the director. Names. They wanted to know if he had heard any names. He realized suddenly that the leader of these men, Jim Conway, was directing this inquiry. He must be the traitor – he was afraid that his name had been used, and that Charlie had heard it. Tompkins had been right to be suspicious of him.

"Well, Dr. Eppes?"

Charlie glanced up at him, then away. The pain was increasing, making it difficult to concentrate. "I'm thinking." He closed his eyes and tried to remember if the terrorists had ever used Conway's name. He came up with a blank. He had remembered Mohammed – what was the man's last name? He tried to picture Mahir talking on the phone. Asif. That was it – Mohammed Asif. He would be the leader, or at least the next higher in command of the terrorist group. There was another name, though, Charlie was sure of it. He dimly remembered hearing a name that had sounded familiar, and trying to place it.

Think. Where was he when it was said? A recollection floated back – he was riding with Mahir in a vehicle on the way to the warehouse. That's when Mahir had used it, when he was on his cell phone. It didn't begin with a C though, Charlie was sure of it – it was a B maybe….

"We are running out of time, doctor," said Jensen softly. His tone was menacing.

Charlie stared back at him. What would they do if he told them the truth – that he had given no names to Tompkins, and he could not remember any other name but Asif's? Would they let him go? They couldn't, he realized suddenly, with a sudden feeling of dread. They had to know he would at least report how they had questioned him – the veiled threats – their intentness on knowing what he had said to Tompkins. They would have no choice other than to kill him, once they knew what Tompkins knew. His only hope was to refuse to talk. As long as he had what they wanted, they would keep him alive. Eventually, the doctors would come back for him. He had to hold his questioners off for at least that long.

"That conversation was confidential," replied Charlie. It seemed suddenly hard to breathe. "I'm afraid I can't tell you."

Jensen straightened. "That is a shame." He stepped over to the table and held up the syringe. "Our Middle Eastern friends gave us this. I hear that you have had first-hand experience with it."

Charlie stared at the syringe, his chest suddenly feeling as if it was in a vise. That couldn't be the same drug he was tortured with. Was the man bluffing? _Please, God, let him be bluffing. I can't take that again, I can't…_

Jensen continued. "Of course, if you tell us what you told Tompkins, this will be unnecessary. Much less painful for you, much neater for us."

'_Neater_,' thought Charlie, staring at the syringe. '_A neat corpse, a nice neat death_.'

"Let me think about it," he said, hedging for time, trying to keep the note of desperation out of his voice.

Jensen's smile vanished. "We have no more time," he said coldly. His eyes fell on the restraints, removable Velcro straps, strung through the rails of the other bed. "Tie his arms down."

He stepped forward as Charlie tried to struggle up on his elbows, and pushed him down easily; leaning with one hand on Charlie's chest as the other two men unfastened the restraints. The pressure on Charlie's chest was painful; he could feel his cracked ribs protesting, and he gasped, trying to get air. He thrashed weakly, his legs kicking, and tried to pull his arms away, but the only thing he was successful at warding off was his blanket, which slipped to floor. His sheet ended up at the foot of the bed, and he shook uncontrollably in the thin hospital gown, but he knew it was not from the cold.

They had managed to secure his arms, the strap on one side pulling painfully at his IV. He took a lungful of air as the heavy pressure on his chest was released, and yelled as loudly as he could. Surely someone would hear him.

A voice came from a speaker near the observation window. "Cover his mouth. We don't know how good the soundproofing is."

Charlie twisted his head back and forth, wildly, but someone pushed it down, his face turned to one side, and a heavy hand covered his mouth. Jensen leaned over and put his face in the professor's line of sight. Dark, terrified eyes stared at him over the hand clamped over his lower face. Jensen was suddenly reminded of the small creatures he used to torture as a child, and he felt an unexpected surge of anticipation. "Really professor," he said softly, "you're making this much too hard on yourself. Names; and whether or not you gave them to Tompkins. That's all we want. Now we'll take that hand away, and give you another chance."

The large paw was removed from his mouth, and Charlie lay as he was for a moment, his eyes locked on Jensen's. Maybe he should stop fighting, and just give them what they were looking for. No one else's life was dependent on his silence anymore – the terrorist cells were in custody; the bomb threat thwarted. They were going to kill him anyway – he could have a relatively painless death, rather than agony. As a mathematician, looking at it from a purely logical standpoint, that was what he should do. Optimize his own death, by picking the least painful option.

There were two problems with that option. One, a traitor would go free, to possibly plan more attacks. And two, it ruled out hope. Statistically speaking, any turn of events that would save him at this point would be pure chance, with a low probability, but to abandon hope seemed wrong, somehow. The illogical hope he felt as a human being was in direct conflict with the logical conclusions he had arrived at as a mathematician. He opened his mouth, not sure which one was going to speak, until the word came out. "No."

The human being had won. He closed his eyes, and waited for the pain.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don felt ready to explode. They had hit Hermosillo in record time, but it was still hours after the NSA agents had arrived. About two hours into the trip, Garcia had phoned Merrick again, who had talked to Tompkins, only moments before. Tompkins had received a report from his man in charge, Paulson, Merrick had told him. Everything was fine.

Despite the reassurance, Don felt anything but fine. He would not be fine; nothing would be fine, until he could see Charlie for himself. Just inside the city limits, at around sunset, Garcia stopped to fill the tank, and Don almost launched himself out of the back seat, pacing back and forth in front of the pumps. His arm was throbbing uncomfortably, and he swung it back and forth, trying to loosen it up.

Edgerton followed suit, getting out, stretching his legs, pacing also, but at a distance. He was impatient, and he usually didn't allow that, in fact, he had become so good at tamping down his emotions; it was generally not an issue. This was different, and although he thought he knew why, he was still surprised at his own reaction. As he turned, he exchanged an unexpected glance with Eppes, and both of them knew that they were on the same wavelength. Every agent had felt it at one time or another; that keyed up feeling, every sense tingling, that eagerness to go to battle. Nervous, excited, determined all at once; the feeling that you were facing the unknown, but had never been more ready for it in your life. Eppes was feeling the rush, too.

Don heard the pump handle click off, and he climbed back into the car without losing any time, ready to roll, and Edgerton was right behind him. Their arrival would not be delayed on their accounts.

Twenty minutes later, they were at the hospital. Darkness had fallen, and Garcia cruised completely around it, slowly, looking for the best place to park. Don shifted edgily in his seat. "Park for God's sake," he said. "Let's get in there."

"Hold up," said Garcia. "We need to think about what we may encounter in there. Let's go over the possible scenarios."

"One," said Edgerton, speaking rapidly. He was as impatient to get on with it as Eppes was. "Everything is as reported; Charlie is fine; the NSA agents are doing their job watching over him, preparing to bring him back."

"Right," said Garcia. "In that event, we are simply to monitor the situation, covertly, so that they don't know we are there." Merrick had briefed them all on the importance of that; he didn't want to be responsible for angering Tompkins, or worse yet, creating an inter-agency war, by letting the NSA know it was being spied upon.

"Two;" said Ian, continuing, "we find a situation where things are not as they should be, and Charlie is in danger."

Don picked up the conversation. "In that case, we take them out. Or if we can't, we grab Charlie and get him the hell out of there."

"Possibly," conceded Garcia. "But if the situation is suspicious but not urgent, the best thing to do is have Merrick arrange some local police back up, and take possession of his room. A show of force in a public place could keep the NSA guys from getting violent."

"Whatever happens, I'm going to see him," Don said firmly. "Once we determine everything's okay in there, I'll leave and come back in. I'll go through the front, ask for his room at information, just in case anyone's watching. The story will be that I caught a flight down to Hermosillo when I heard that he was here.

Garcia pursed his lips. "Okay, that could work. You're his brother, it would make sense. And if things really are clear, you wouldn't need to operate under an alias anymore. We'd need to approve it through Merrick, though. As far as places to park go," he continued, as he pulled up in a loading zone by a side door, "this is good for now. We need the car to be close in case we need to get out in a hurry."

He threw another look at Don and Ian. "You guys good?"

Don knew what the question implied. Garcia wanted to know if they were ready, if they had their heads on straight. Ian nodded. "Yeah," said Don. "I'm good."

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Mahir glanced at the sleeping driver beside him with a twinge of frustration. Now was not the time to sleep. They had pulled Conway's SUV over across the street from the hospital, and waited, per Paulson's instructions to remain available. Mahir felt a lot more comfortable now that he and his men were out of their white SUV; he knew that there had to be bulletins out for it, and obtaining the FBI vehicle had been an added bonus. Now, all that was left was to wait for word from Paulson that Eppes was dead. Then he could report in to Asif, and they would be on their way to the airport, and safety.

He had watched idly as the older Buick had cruised up the street, but it did not catch his attention until it returned a second time, and parked in the loading zone. He watched intently as three men exited from it. Their backs were to him as they got out, except for the driver, who looked decidedly Hispanic. In the darkness, he could not see them well, but one of them struck a chord. Even from the back, he seemed somehow familiar.

He nudged the driver, who grunted sleepily, but as the men went in through the side door, Mahir realized that he had nothing specific to tell him. He let the driver drift back to sleep, and watched the side door, frowning.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Dr. Gonzalez paced up and down the hallway, anxiously. It was approaching eight o'clock; her patient had been with the NSA agents for two hours. She had gone around the corner into the corridor three times in the last hour and a half. They had posted a man outside the door, and each time he ushered her gently but firmly away, telling her that Dr. Eppes was fine, and that they were letting him rest periodically.

A half hour ago she had tried to page Torres, but got no response. When she called up to his floor, she was told that he was in the middle of dealing with a seizing patient. She had a feeling that Torres would agree that Eppes should be returned to his room, and she was hoping for backup. Even without that backup, she was going to give the agents twenty more minutes, she decided, then go and insist that they give the patient some rest.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

The side entrance was meant primarily for hospital staff. A few concrete steps led up to a landing, and a single door led into a stairwell, lined with concrete block. In the United States, for security reasons, a side door to a public facility such as that would have been locked, but at Hospital General the staff had not seen the need to do that. Salespeople, small deliveries, and medical personnel alike went through that entrance. Inside the door, a half flight of utilitarian concrete steps led up to the second floor, and a half flight led down to the first. Above them both, another flight led up to the third floor.

There were signs posted on the wall just inside the entrance describing what was on each floor. Garcia paused to read them. Edgerton scanned the stairwells, watchfully, and Don felt inside his jacket, checking the seating of his service pistol in his holster. Garcia spoke. "Third floor is general surgery, infectious disease, psychiatric care, and the ICU. Second is pediatrics and obstetrics to one side, pulmonary and heart on the other. First floor – doesn't look like there are any rooms – just labs, radiology, and the morgue."

"I'll take the first floor," said Edgerton quietly.

Don opened his mouth to correct him, to remind him that there weren't any rooms there, and suddenly realized what Ian was referring to. The morgue. He turned pale, and shut his mouth.

Garcia studied him. "Eppes, you can take the second floor. Bear to your right when you get in; pediatrics and obstetrics are to the left, he won't be there. I'll take the third. We meet back right here as soon as we've reconnoitered our floors, or in twenty minutes, whichever comes first."

He started up the stairs. Don turned to glance at Edgerton, and found that he was gone already; he had slipped silently away. As Don turned to follow Garcia, his eye caught the floor listing, and the words, _Depósito de Cadáveres,_ drew his vision like a magnet. Ian's inspection of that floor would be fruitless, he told himself firmly. There was no way his brother was down there. His heart in his throat, he ascended the stairs to the second floor. He paused for just a moment to put on his game face, and slipped through the door.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Jensen strained to keep his grip on the professor's head, one hand over his mouth, and watched with rapt fascination as the professor gasped and cried out, his limbs in spasm. He was coming down from his first aftershock, his second bout of pain since they had given him the injection. Jensen had never seen anything like it; the crazed writhing, the screams, the unbelievable agony. He had a sudden conviction; he would apprentice under Kafa, or someone like him. To be able to witness this, to experience it on a regular basis…

"Jensen!" Jensen realized with a start that Paulson was trying to get his attention. Jensen's hands were sweating; he released the professor's head, and wiping his hands on his pants, left the room, as Kirtland stepped up to stifle the tortured man's screams. As Jensen entered the observation room, he looked up to find Paulson watching him with narrowed eyes, and a look of veiled disgust. "Sykes will take over the questioning for a while. Take a break."

Jensen's face flushed and he turned away, pretending to look out of the observation window, trying to ignore Avilar's amused smile. He watched as Sykes stepped up to the professor, who now lay on the gurney, his eyes glazed, his breath rasping, in a lull between the aftershocks. His lips moved, and Sykes leaned his head closer. "Yes, Dr. Eppes?"

"Conway." Sykes repeated the name, and shot a meaningful glance toward the observation room. "Tompkins is suspicious of Conway? That's all you said when you talked?" At the response, Sykes straightened, and stared at the observation window, and nodded.

"That's it," said Paulson. "Eppes finally broke. It sounds like we're good, boys." He snorted softly. "Amazing. Mahir gave him two rounds of that stuff. I can't believe he made it through that without cracking." Jensen stared out the window with a disappointed expression, and Paulson eyed him as if he were something slimy that had crawled up on the chair.

"So what's next?" asked Avilar.

Paulson stared out of the observation window at the figure on the bed. "We kill him."

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 23


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

Edgerton paused at the doorway, composed himself; and then walked nonchalantly through the door to the first floor, as if he belonged there. The hallway was deserted, except for a young attractive woman in a white coat, pacing the hall. Ian put his head down and started to walk past her; then thought better of it. He stepped over to her, pulling a photograph out of his jacket. "_Perdone__ señorita__¿Usted tiene__ un__ momento__?"_

Dr. Gonzalez eyed him with mistrust, and responded in English. "Yes, I have a moment. Make it quick."

Edgerton responded with a wry grin. Apparently his accent was not as good as he thought. Glancing at her sideways to watch her reaction, he held the photo out to her. "I'm looking for this man. Have you seen him?"

Her eyes flashed with surprise, then narrowed with suspicion. "Yes. Why?"

Edgerton pulled out his badge. "I'm FBI. I've been sent to see to his well-being. Can you tell me what room he's in?"

She looked at him with an odd expression, and replied, "He's down here." She watched as a look of shock passed over his face, so quickly that it was hard to catch. He seemed at a loss for words for a moment, and she studied him closely. She knew that he thought she meant the morgue.

Something in his eyes satisfied her, and she said, "He's in a room down the hall, with some of your other government people – NSA, I believe they're called. They've been questioning him for almost two hours. Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell them that he needs to go upstairs now."

As she spoke, she saw a look of relief pass over his face, and he nodded. "I'll do that. Where exactly is he?"

She pointed. "Go to the first corridor on the left. As you get to the end of it, make a right. You'll see the NSA man at the door. Tell them they have overstayed their welcome, and that I am coming down in five minutes to take him to his room."

Edgerton made his way down the hall, taking a quick look into the corridor before he turned down it. It was empty, but as he reached the end, he slowed. He pulled a small dentist's mirror from an inside pocket and knelt near the floor, easing it just past the corner. He could see the reflection of the man in the hallway around the corner to the right, standing guard at the door, and he pulled the mirror back, and stood.

Just then he heard the sound of a door opening around the same corner, and voices, headed his way. There was a door behind him, and he tried it. Locked. He headed back down the corridor, but there was no time to get all the way back to the main hall before they turned the corner. He grabbed at the next door handle, and to his relief it turned. He slipped inside, and stood in the darkness, leaving it open just a crack.

The feet stopped outside of the door, and for a bad moment, he thought that they had seen him. How was he going to explain his way out of this? They began to talk, however, and he realized that they hadn't. The voices were quiet, but they were inches away, and their words came to him clearly.

"Sedation is the best way. We overdose him, and it looks like the hospital screwed up. We know they had him on a dosage schedule and he's way behind. We give him one dose to knock him out, and when he gets up to the room, let the nurse administer his scheduled dose. If that's not enough to do him in, we sneak him another one after she leaves."

Another voice snorted. "God knows, he needs it after that. I don't even think he'll care if it's his last dose."

"All right, I'll tell the doctor we're almost done. One of you needs to get up to his floor and find out what sedative they had him on. Once you find out, the rest of you need to try to get your hands on some of it. Try the surgical ward."

The voices faded as the speakers' feet carried them down the hall, and Edgerton let himself softly out of the room, his expression grim. The situation had changed; his mission was now rescue, not reconnoiter. He stepped softly down the hallway and took a quick look around the corner. The guard was still posted. He had no way of knowing if there were any more, but he decided he would deal with them when he had to.

He straightened and turned the corner, walking toward the guard, who stiffened, then tried to look relaxed, failing miserably. "Can I help you?" asked Jensen. He needed to get rid of this guy.

Edgerton smiled, and shrugged. "¿_Dónde es el Depósito de Cadáveres?"_

Jensen frowned, struggling with the Spanish; then his eyes fell on the sign at the end of the hall. _Depósito de Cadáveres, _the man had said. He stepped forward, pointing to the sign; Edgerton turned with him, and quick as a flash stepped behind him. One sharp twist of the neck, and Jensen was on the floor, his body jerking like the hamster he had disemboweled in third grade. Edgerton stepped over him before his last breath was gone, and pushed into the room, his eyes black ice.

It was empty except for the thin figure shivering on the bed. Edgerton glanced at the observation window, then behind him, and stepped up beside Charlie, anger snapping in his eyes as he took in the restraints, the pain in the thin face. Charlie's eyes were closed, but he was shaking, his brow was knitted and his breath uneven; and Edgerton knew he was conscious.

Charlie felt the presence beside him, and opened his eyes. Before they were fully focused a hand came down over his mouth, and he looked up wildly to see Ian Edgerton, a finger to his lips. His keen ears had picked up approaching footsteps. Edgerton stepped to the doorway; turned out the light and opened the door just a crack.

A figure came into view through the tiny slit; a hospital maintenance worker by his uniform, and he uttered an exclamation as he saw Jensen's body, then the footsteps retreated down the hall. Ian flicked the light back on and stepped back over to Charlie, unfastening his restraints. They had to move, quickly – the hallway would be swarming with people within minutes.

"Come on, professor," he said quietly. "I'm going to get you out of here." He unhooked the IV from its stand, pulled up the sheet from the bottom of the bed, wrapping Charlie loosely in it, and began to lift him over his shoulder.

Charlie had stared at him dazedly, his thought processes so scrambled with pain that he couldn't put a name with the face. Something, some dim recollection told him that he couldn't trust this man, and he began to struggle weakly as he was lifted, wrapped in the sheet like a mummy. His midsection came down hard on Ian's shoulder, sending a knife of pain through his ribs. It forced the breath out of his chest, and ripped the last shred of consciousness from his mind.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don waited impatiently in the stairwell, and as he heard the footsteps above him, he ran up to meet Garcia on the second floor landing. Garcia took in the look of hope in Don's eyes, and tried to speak reassuringly. "I found his room, on the third floor. He's not in there, though. I asked at the desk; the nurse said he wasn't scheduled for X-rays, lab work or surgery. She wasn't sure why he wasn't in there. I had her page his doctor, but he's tied up on rounds. I'm going to go back up and wait."

Don felt his anxiety increasing. "Where in the hell would he be?"

They heard a door bang open below them, the sound echoing against the concrete block, and they started down the half flight of steps toward the exit door. Don was completely unprepared for the sight that greeted him. Edgerton was charging up the steps, a limp figure over his shoulder, and Don knew immediately that it was Charlie, even without seeing the telltale head of curly hair.

"Go, go!" exclaimed Edgerton fiercely, and Garcia shot past Don down the steps to open the exit door. Don stood frozen on the steps - the limp figure wrapped in a white sheet with a thin lifeless, bruised arm dangling, could only mean one thing. Ian had found Charlie in the morgue. They were too late. He felt as though his heart had stopped beating; he couldn't move, he couldn't think.

Garcia hissed at him from the doorway. "Eppes, _vamos_, come on, man!"

He somehow found his feet and stumbled down the steps and out to the car. Edgerton had the back door open, still holding his brother's body over his shoulder. "Get in," Ian said urgently, "I'll hand him to you."

Garcia dashed around to the driver's side and Don jumped in the back, his body moving mechanically. Edgerton leaned over, guiding Charlie from his shoulder to Don's arms, and Don pulled him inside, Charlie's back against his chest. Don heard doors slamming as he buried his face in the curls that rested against his cheek. He could feel his brother's arms, bare against his, ice cold. "Charlie," he whispered, his heart breaking, and a surge of pure pain filled him. His brother's hair was damp, he thought dazedly, and then he realized it was from the tears that were streaming down his face. The car lurched from the curb, and he clung to Charlie tightly, only barely aware of the movement, and the shouting behind them. He closed his eyes, as grief overtook him, filling his heart, his very soul.

"We've got company," said Garcia, tersely, as he floored the gas pedal. Edgerton twisted in his seat and looked out the back window. He could see a figure emerging from the door they had just come from, shouting and pointing. A police car was parked on the same side of the road as the hospital; he saw an officer jump in, and pull out behind them. On the other side of the road, a dark SUV was doing a U-turn in the street, falling in behind the police car. Garcia's powerful arms manipulated the wheel, and the Buick skidded around a corner.

Charlie came awake to darkness, flashing lights, and movement. He realized groggily that he was in a car, confined by someone's arms. He could see Edgerton in the front passenger seat; the driver was someone he didn't recognize. Sudden panic surged in him, and he twisted, trying to break free of the arms around him.

Don felt the movement, and his heart nearly stopped for the second time in minutes. Stunned, he relaxed his arms, and Charlie slid as he twisted sideways. Don grabbed him again to keep him from falling, and Charlie struggled harder. "Charlie!" Don gasped; his voice hoarse with emotion. At the voice, Charlie froze, and then turned his face upward, and for one electrifying moment, each of them looked into the eyes of the brother he thought he had lost.

Don drank in the sight; Charlie's face upturned to his. It was thin, pale and drawn with lines of pain, the dark eyes still reflecting the horror that he had gone through, but he was alive, and the sight of those dark eyes looking into his were without question the best thing Don had ever seen.

Charlie stared back, stunned, trying to gather his scattered faculties. Was he hallucinating, his mind broken? Was this simply his vision, his mantra, returning, as his sanity collapsed? He felt the lurching of the vehicle, the strong arms around him; the solidness of his brother's presence, and it came to him slowly that it was real. "Donnie," he whispered, and laid his head against Don's chest, tears filling his eyes, holding his brother as tightly as his weak arms could manage.

Don buried his face in the top of Charlie's head, and grasped him securely as the car swerved. He murmured into the curls as the siren, then gunshots, sounded behind them. "It's okay now, Buddy, I've got you. It's gonna be okay."

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 24


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

Garcia blasted through an intersection, a blaring horn his only concession to the red light. Behind him the police siren screamed; the patrol car's lights flashing like a strobe. He could hear shots again, and he snuck a quick glance in the rear view mirror. "Get down, Eppes. The goddamn idiot is shooting at us." Don lay partially sideways in the seat, against the door, still holding Charlie in front of him.

Edgerton spoke brusquely as he peered out through the back window, one hand on the headrest to keep from being thrown against the door. "I don't think it's the officer that's shooting; I think it's the SUV behind him."

They roared around one corner, then another. More shots popped, a block or two back, and Edgerton saw the squad car suddenly veer wildly, bouncing over a curb, and smash headlong into a building.

"Shit," said Garcia. "I'm sure that cop called us in. Guess who they're gonna blame for that."

"They're cutting off our options," agreed Edgerton. "It's just them and us now."

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Mahir delivered commands through his cell phone with cold intensity. His men had fallen in behind him, driving the two dark sedans, and he was speaking to the driver of the second car. "Head due north, toward Highway 2. We will try to delay them. Once you reach the highway, reduce your speed and call me for further directions."

He hung up and punched in the other sedan behind him. "Head north by a block or two, quickly, and try to cut them off. Keep them headed east until I tell you otherwise."

He snapped his phone shut and glared at his man in the passenger seat, who was leaning out of the window taking aim at the police car, trying to steady his pistol. "Can you not shoot? Get rid of him."

His cell phone rang, and he answered it curtly. "Mahir."

Paulson's voice came over the line. "I've got my men rounded up, and we're in the SUV, heading out behind you. Where are you?"

"Heading east, on a main thoroughfare. We are expecting them to turn north eventually, and try to make Highway 2. It will take them up to the border."

"We can't let them get ahead of us on the highway."

"I am already working on that," replied Mahir, clutching the armrest as the SUV roared around a corner.

Paulson could hear the faint sound of sirens, then gunshots, over the line. "It sounds like you have a police escort."

Mahir watched as a bullet shattered the squad car driver's window just as the vehicle turned sideways. It spun out of the turn, then veered off and struck a building with horrific force. "Not any more," he said impassively.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Garcia glanced to his left as he passed a cross street, his attention captured by a dark sedan going as fast as he was. A quick block flew by, and there it was again, as he looked to his left up the next street. "We've got one on our left. Edgerton, are you loaded up?"

Edgerton held up his pistol. "Ready."

Garcia leaned over, fumbling on the floor with his eyes on the road, and grabbed a map of Hermosillo at his feet. He had picked it up at the gas station, and was damn glad he did. "Eppes, can you handle a map? Look for the best way to Highway 2." He tossed it over the rear seat as he spoke and Don shifted his grip on Charlie, holding him with one arm, as he grabbed the map and shook it open.

Charlie turned slightly and grasped the front of Don's shirt with his left hand, trying to keep himself steady. The IV was still inserted into the back of it; Edgerton had wrapped it up with the sheet. His head rested on Don's chest, and the map hung right in front of him, dancing before his eyes. There were basically only three ways out of Hermosillo: Highway 2, which headed north, Highway 16, which went due east, and another major highway that went south. The roads west were tiny, not major thoroughfares, and they wandered off toward the ocean. The only way to the border from Hermosillo was Highway 2; to get the next road north, one had to travel east all the way to Chihuahua.

Don peered at the bouncing map over Charlie's dark curls. "It looks like we've got a major thoroughfare coming up in two blocks; it starts north and veers east, and puts you at an interchange for Highway 2 that's just a bit north of here," he said.

Garcia shot another glance to his left as the next street shot past. "That sedan is still there. What in the hell is he doing?" Shots rang out, and he swore as two bullets hit the Buick with muffled thuds.

Charlie took a deep breath, trying to find enough strength to speak loudly enough to be heard. "It's basic herding strategy. They want you to continue in the direction you're going."

"There's another interchange further out, if we stay on this road," said Don. "It's not as direct, and it's the last chance to get on Highway 2."

"I don't think we have a choice – that sedan's blocking us from taking the first one," said Garcia, grimly. "What's the SUV doing?"

Edgerton was frowning out the back window. "They're just hanging with us, a ways back."

"Herding," said Charlie, weakly. The Buick hit a pothole, and the resulting thump sent a shock wave of pain through his body. He closed his eyes and twisted his hand in Don's shirt.

Garcia shot past the main thoroughfare that would have led them to the first ramp to Highway 2, and frowned. "The sedan's gone. What in the hell?"

"Still herding," said Charlie, panting. "They've removed a restriction, so you can go north now." Talking was an effort, and his voice was weakening.

"What'd he say?" yelled Garcia over his shoulder.

Don called back. "He said they're still herding. They want you to go north now."

"Why would they do that?" asked Edgerton, frowning. "That's where we want to go."

"Delay," managed Charlie. He could feel pain intensifying; an aftershock was building.

Don stared at the map as the revelation hit him. "They delayed us so they could get people ahead of us. Once we get out on that highway, there will be nowhere else to go. They can block us off from the front and behind, and we'll be out in the middle of nowhere." Just like the ambush on the way to the airport, he thought.

"Well, screw that," said Garcia, his accent deepening, showing its barrio roots. "We ain't goin' north then. Hold on, I'm gonna try to throw that SUV."

It wasn't as hard as he thought it would be. The SUV seemed to be slowing, dropping back, and in a few turns it was gone. Garcia frowned. "That was too easy."

"He thinks it doesn't matter," said Don. "He's assuming that you're getting on Highway 2, and he wants to be behind you. He can afford to take his time."

Garcia grinned, as he saw a sign ahead, indicating Highway 16. "Too bad for him," he said. "We're going to Chihuahua. I'm going to call in to Merrick." He felt at his belt for his cell phone, and his grin faded as he felt an empty phone holster. "Damn. Edgerton, do me a favor and report in. I can't find my phone."

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Paulson opened the cell phone that his man had found lying on the concrete steps outside the hospital side door. He hit the first number on speed dial, and listened as Walter Merrick came on the line, then hung up without a word. "FBI," he muttered, as Avilar shot him a curious glance from the driver's seat. "Goddamned FBI sent their people after us." He cursed himself mentally. Dr. Gonzalez had said something about an FBI man when he talked to her in the hallway; and he had assumed that she was talking about his own man, that she was mistaken. Unfortunately, she had turned out to be correct. That FBI agent had walked in right under their noses, and vanished like a ghost, along with Dr. Eppes.

"What's this world coming to?" said Sykes sarcastically from the back seat, and they all grinned except Paulson.

"You think this is funny?" he demanded.

Sykes shrugged, and grabbed the armrest as Avilar veered onto the ramp for Highway 2. "Mahir says they've got them surrounded, right? They aren't going anywhere. As soon as they get far enough up Highway 2, we'll nail 'em."

Paulson pulled out his own phone. "Everyone quiet for a minute. I need to report this out to Tompkins, and put some spin on this." He dialed and paused, with the phone to his ear. "Bob, thank God I caught you. We have a situation. Dr. Eppes was kidnapped from the hospital, moments ago. Jensen was guarding him, they killed him, broke his neck."

There was silence as Paulson listened to the response. "Yes, sir, we're in pursuit now. It's Conway, sir, and he seems to have some others with him – one of my guys got a look, said they look Middle Eastern. Yes, sir…"

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Charlie moaned and twisted against Don's chest, and Don looked down at him anxiously. "Charlie, what's wrong?"

"Af – uuhh – aftershock," groaned Charlie, grimacing.

"Still?" asked Don incredulously, alarm in his eyes. "From the shot they gave you?"

Charlie groaned, as a stronger wave began. "'Nother one," he gasped

"They gave you another injection?" repeated Don.

"Third one," Charlie gasped. "Two from Mahir, one innn hossspital… aaauuuhh."

Charlie was beginning to squirm in agony, trying desperately to hold in his cries of pain.

Don stared, aghast. "Three…," he said, his voice trailing off in shock.

Garcia and Edgerton sent alarmed glances over their seats. "What's wrong with him?" asked Garcia.

Don spoke through gritted teeth, trying to keep hold of his brother, who was beginning to flail, his arms and legs jerking in involuntary agonized movements. "They gave him an injection when they tortured him – it produces extreme pain – and it repeats for several hours. The NSA bastards apparently gave him another one, in the hospital." His eyes met Edgerton's, dark with horror. "It's his third one." He didn't mention that Kafa had said a single shot had a thirty percent mortality rate; he didn't think it was the best idea to remind Charlie of that. The thought settled in his brain, however, along with the deep fear that it generated.

Charlie's arm shot out, and his wrist connected with the window with a nasty crack. Don hastily shifted his grip, and gathered in the arm. Charlie twisted again, and turned his head into Don's chest, trying to muffle the cry that he knew he could hold in no longer. Don felt the sound as well as heard it; it seemed as though every bone in his chest cavity vibrated, and his heart along with it.

Garcia glanced back at them in the rearview mirror, disconcerted, and back at the highway, then back again. He caught Don's initial look of despair, but at the next glance it had changed, to cold fury. Edgerton had turned back around in his seat, and was staring at the road, seemingly impassive, but Garcia could see a similar angry set to his jaw, the ice in his eyes. He was profoundly grateful that he wasn't the subject of their anger; those were two men that no one would want to cross.

Another muffled cry came from the back seat, and he glanced in the mirror again. Charlie was literally shaking; his body in spasm from the pain, and Garcia felt a twinge of superstitious fear at the unimaginable evil that had generated something so horrible. It was the work of Diablo, and he crossed himself, surreptitiously, as the car hurtled on into the darkness.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 25


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

Merrick stood looking out of the window into the L.A. night, and pondered the predicament he was in. By rights, he should call his director and Tompkins and let them know that Charlie was now in FBI hands. Garcia had argued with that; he didn't trust the NSA, and he made his case to Merrick to let them get across the border safely first, then come clean with the NSA. That course of action, Merrick knew, could generate a firestorm of political controversy between their organizations, and could create an era of mistrust that might never be overcome. It also could cost him his job.

He could protect himself by going to his director, and placing the burden on his back, but the risk he took was that his director might decide against Garcia, and tell Tompkins. The problem, Merrick told himself, was that he himself essentially agreed with Garcia. He had no doubt that Bob Tompkins' heart was in the right place; it was Tompkins' people he didn't trust, and letting the NSA in on what was happening could put his team, and Charlie, in danger. The forces that drove the decision boiled down to two: the safety of his team versus political correctness. For Merrick, that made it no contest. His team would come first, every time, even if he had to pay the price with his career.

He had wanted to contact the Mexican police, to get Garcia an escort, but when Garcia told him what happened with the pursuing squad car, and the likelihood that the officer had called in Garcia and his team before the shootings began, Merrick had to agree with his agent that it wasn't a good idea. The Mexican law process was corrupt, convoluted, and slow. It was very likely that the police would hold the team in Mexico while they investigated, and Merrick did not trust their ability to keep his people safe while that happened.

The best plan was to get them over the border first, and deal with the fallout from the accident later. By that time, Tompkins might even have a handle on who his double agents were, and they could offer the identities of the real criminals to the Mexican government. Not the people themselves though. They would be held in the United States. Treason on that scale trumped almost any other crime, even a police officer's murder.

Still, Merrick needed to get his team some support. Garcia had told him he was going to try to cross the border north of Chihuahua, at Juarez, into El Paso, Texas. He needed someone there to help with the crossing, and to make sure that the border guard had Charlie's passport – they had obtained a new one for him. Merrick couldn't afford to let too many people in on what was going on, but there were three he knew he could count on – Reeves, Granger and Sinclair. His next action would be to call the three of them at home, and get them down to the border to facilitate the crossing. Thankfully, they had found the Sarin stash, and that part of the L.A. investigation was cleaned up. They had to be exhausted, but at least they were available.

The phone rang, and he crossed over to it, grimacing as he looked at the caller ID. Alan Eppes. He definitely owed the man some information, but he wasn't sure what he could tell him. He picked up the phone. "Merrick. Yes, hello, Mr. Eppes."

On the other end of the line, Alan tried to keep the impatience out of his voice. "I was wondering if they had made any arrangements to get Charlie home. You had had said that they might try to arrange a medical flight tonight, and I hadn't heard anything. And I'm assuming that you've contacted Don."

Merrick paused for a moment. How should he phrase this? "Mr. Eppes, there has been a change of plans. We are bringing Charlie home, but it will probably not happen until some time tomorrow."

Alan fought down a surge of disappointment. "Can I talk to him?"

"I'm afraid that's not possible at the moment. We can arrange that though, later, perhaps in the morning."

Alan frowned into the receiver. The man's statements seemed unnecessarily cryptic, and he felt a rising suspicion. "Where is Don? Can he see him, at least?"

"Don is on his way home, too. You'll see both of them tomorrow."

At the half-answer, Alan felt his patience snap. "What in the hell is going on? You're hiding something, and damn it, I think I have the right to know what's happening."

Merrick stood silently for a moment. "Listen, Alan, I can't tell you exactly what's going on, but I am going to give you one piece of information that might make you feel better. You need to promise not to speak about this to anyone, other than me, even after your sons return."

"Of course," replied Alan. Frustration made his voice clipped, short.

"I can't tell you where they are or what circumstances they are in at the moment, but I can tell you that they are together. Does that help?"

Alan felt a mixture of relief and apprehension. "I – yes, I feel a lot better hearing that. I just – well, can you tell me if they're safe?"

Merrick paused. He wasn't going to lie to the man. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "That's all I can give you right now. I'll let you know more when I can." He waited through a moment of dead silence on the other end. "Mr. Eppes?"

Alan gathered his thoughts, which had momentarily been derailed by the dread that Merrick's response had generated. "Yes," he said. "Please, as soon as you hear something, let me know."

"I will," replied Merrick. "I'll talk to you soon." The phone clicked, and Alan sat, staring blankly at the receiver.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Mahir eyed the taillights of the sedan in front of him with frustration, and spoke into his cell phone. "Pull off at the next exit."

The two sedans in front of him complied, and he followed them down the ramp. They turned off on a side road and found a deserted parking lot almost immediately. Mahir's SUV pulled in behind them, followed by Paulson's, and they all stepped out of the vehicles, congregating around Mahir and Paulson.

"What in the hell happened?" demanded Paulson, angrily.

Mahir eyed him coldly. "Obviously, they did not get on the highway." He looked at one of his men. "Map," he snapped.

The man pulled a map of Mexico out of the SUV and Mahir laid it on the hood. He and Paulson peered at it under the parking lot's lone light. Mahir tapped the map with a forefinger. "I would guess that they figured out what we were trying to do, and they picked an alternate route. There is only one other way that would make sense, and that is Highway 16 to Chihuahua. They could go north from there; Highway 16 turns northeast, and Highway 45 goes straight north, to Juarez."

Paulson nodded, frowning. "That's the only thing they could do. There are no major roads west, and they wouldn't want to go south. The only good thing is; you caught it within minutes." He stepped away from the van. "Let's get going, then. They'll have a half hour head start." He turned back to Mahir as a thought struck him. "Ditch Conway's and his men's phones here. They've served their purpose, and we don't want them to be tracked."

Mahir nodded, and looked at the driver of one of the sedans. "You - continue north on Highway 2, and try to find a way to get over to Highway 45. Perhaps we can head them off."

They jumped in the vehicles, and with a screech of tires, they sped back onto the highway, all of them headed south, but one. A moment later, a window opened in Mahir's SUV, and six cell phones clattered to the pavement.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

"He sleeping?" asked Garcia softly, glancing over his shoulder.

"I think so," said Don, although he wasn't sure. He eyed the top of his brother's head anxiously. They had been traveling for two hours, and Charlie had gone through yet another aftershock, not quite as bad as the first, but each attack seemed to drain him further. He had collapsed after the last one, his head on Don's shoulder, breathing heavily, and Don had held him there while he recovered. Charlie hadn't moved since then, and the breathing had grown more regular. Don didn't know if he had passed out, or had just drifted off, but he did know he wasn't about to disturb him.

Edgerton turned and eyed him, frowning. "His hand's bleeding."

Don looked down. Charlie had been gripping Don's shirt with his left hand, and that hand now lay lifelessly on Don's chest. There was a trickle of blood running down his arm from the IV. Don awkwardly fished out the bag from the tangle of sheets, and lifted it. It was nearly empty. "He must have yanked on it or twisted it. Maybe we should take it out," he said, peering at Charlie's hand.

Their heads came up as the vehicle surged suddenly, then slowed, the engine growling. They turned and looked at Garcia, who was frowning at the dash. "What in the hell's wrong with this thing?" he muttered, and the car seemed to take offense to the statement; the growling increased, and the power dropped off. Garcia turned the wheel, and the vehicle limped over to the side of the road.

He sprang out, and Edgerton followed, and Garcia popped the hood. Don shot an anxious glance out the back window, then around them. They were not too far outside of Chihuahua, on a stretch of road that was fairly desolate. To their left was one of the first signs of civilization Don had seen in the last several miles; a good-sized shantytown sprawled in the moonlit desert, a sign that they were getting closer to a sizable city. In the faint light, he could see miniscule ragged dwellings; some actually appeared to be real buildings with walls, although tiny, while others were conglomerations of scraps; wood, cardboard, tin, anything that could be scavenged.

Here and there a light twinkled, but it was primarily dark; the occupants didn't have electricity. Don looked back through the windshield of the vehicle and saw only hood; then decided that while the other agents worked he would try to remove Charlie's IV. He awkwardly got his hands around to Charlie's hand without waking him, and gently stripped off the tape. It was bleeding around the canula, and Don applied pressure with the sheet while he carefully pulled out the canula, and then pressed the sheet firmly against his brother's hand.

He looked up as Garcia stomped around and got into the driver's seat, and tried the ignition. The vehicle sputtered and whined, but the engine refused to turn. "Son of a bitch!" Garcia exclaimed suddenly, and slammed his hand on the steering wheel. Don felt his apprehension begin to morph into fear. Garcia tried cranking it again, with the same result, and then exploded out of driver's seat. Charlie stirred and moaned at the commotion, which now continued outside of the vehicle.

Garcia kicked the fender. "Goddamn punk mechanics!" he ranted. "Stupid kids! They pimp your ride, but they can't rebuild a decent engine!" He paced away from the vehicle, then turned and charged it, and kicked it again.

Edgerton opened Don's door, and spoke quietly. "We'd better get him out of there. We can carry him in the sheet."

Don scowled. "Where? We're out in the middle of nowhere." Charlie's eyes were open, and he blinked blearily.

Edgerton's gaze turned toward the shantytown. "Looks like only one place to go, to me."

Don looked out of the window at the hovels dubiously. "Maybe we should try to hitch a ride."

Garcia had regained control of himself, and as he came around to the side of the vehicle, he shook his head. "No, he's right. There's not much traffic at night out here – do you want to take the chance that the next vehicle might be the NSA? We'll find someplace to hole up down there, and I'll try to find a way into town to get us another vehicle."

Don looked down at Charlie, who had leaned his head back so that he could make eye contact. "How you doing, Buddy?" Don asked softly.

Charlie managed a weak grin, the slightest twist of the lips. "Been better." The words came out as whisper. Don's heart twisted, even as weak and racked with pain as he was; Charlie was trying to reassure him.

He tried to respond in kind, to keep his words light. "Okay, we're going to take a little walk, and you're going for a carry," he said, as he gently eased himself out from underneath Charlie, laying him down on the seat. He pulled at the sheet until he freed the corners, and along with Edgerton, managed to lift Charlie out of the vehicle, using the sheet as a sling. Unknown to him, the IV had been twisted up in a fold, and as they lifted the sheet it shifted, held barely in place by the fabric. Garcia rooted through the trunk, pulling out the essentials, including Edgerton's rifle and extra ammunition, and they set off down the grade that led to the shantytown.

It was a farther walk than it looked, nearly twenty minutes, and Don's injured arm was aching fiercely by the time they got to the nearest hovels. In the moonlight, Charlie's face was pinched with pain, and seemed as ghostly white as the sheet he lay on. Garcia had gone on ahead at a jog, and now he returned, picking his way through the tiny dwellings to where they were, just on the edge of the shantytown. "Come on," he said, "I found someone who'll take us in."

"I'm sure it was out of the goodness of their hearts," said Edgerton, sarcastically.

"No, it was out of the goodness of good old American cash," shot back Garcia. "They seem like they're fairly decent, though."

Edgerton was silent. He didn't trust anyone that could be paid off. But then, he didn't trust anyone, period.

The sound of vehicles made them turn their heads, and Don felt his heart leap with fear as he saw an SUV pull behind the Buick up on the road, followed by another, and a dark sedan. "Come on, boys, let's get under cover," said Garcia, and they glided between the hovels like ghosts, melting into night.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Mahir and Paulson examined the Buick, Mahir running his hand over the bullet holes in the rear fender. "That's it," said Paulson. "They can't be too far, unless they hitched a ride."

They stood silently for a minute, scanning the landscape around them. The desert lay bare in the moonlight. "There is no cover, other than the village," said Mahir.

Avilar's eyes narrowed and he took off down the embankment, sliding on gravel. He trotted several yards, to where he had seen something glinting in the moonlight. He picked up the IV, gingerly fingering the needle at the end, and held it up to the group above, calling to them. "There is fresh blood on this needle. This was his – they have gone toward the village."

Mahir and Paulson scanned the shantytown. It began in front of them and stretched for a good distance to their right. There was a bare stretch of desert; several hundred yards of it, between the village and the road, that would be easy to watch. Behind it lay low barren hills. There must be thousands of hovels in there, thought Paulson. "We need to post men around the perimeter, so they can't get out," he said. "Then we'll take others, and search through them."

Mahir nodded. "We can post one man in a vehicle, up here on the road. He will be able to see this entire side of the village toward the road, plus the side to the left." He looked down the highway to their right. "There is a dirt road that goes in, further down. We will take our other vehicles there. We can post another man on that road to watch that end of the village. We will need two on the far side, in the hills. The rest can search. I will call my men in the other car to come down here."

Paulson nodded and turned his gaze on his men. "Load up, and let's move." His eyes swept back over the shantytown, lying deceptively still in the moonlight. There was nowhere for them to go. It would be just a matter of time, before they found him.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 26


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27**

Garcia stopped in front of an adobe dwelling, not too far inside the perimeter of the town. It was one of the better pieces of real estate in the shantytown; it had solid walls and two small rooms, with a real door on the front. A man came to the door, and nodded, and Garcia motioned for Don and Edgerton to enter. They ducked in the low doorway, trying to maneuver Charlie without jostling him, and found themselves in a small room that the family used for a communal room and a kitchen. It was dark, and was crowded with the man and his family; he appeared to have at least eight children, ranging from toddlers to teens. They stood staring silently, silhouetted in the moonlight that came through an open window, their eyes riveted on Charlie.

A woman motioned to another doorway, and they ducked again, and entered the bedroom; devoid of furniture except for sleeping pads on the floor, side by side. She pointed to the largest pad, and they laid Charlie down. His eyes were closed tightly, and Don gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. Charlie opened his eyes at that, and gazed back at him, his eyes black in the silver moonlight.

Edgerton spoke as Don stood. "You and Charlie will stay here. Garcia and I will find some spots nearby, outside, and keep watch."

Garcia added quietly. "I have explained to the family that we will be watching, with our guns. I told them we mean them no harm, but it would not be in their best interest to give you up. They understand that the men who are looking for us can't be trusted. Between that and the money, they should have enough incentive to keep their mouths shut. As soon as I can, I'm going to try to find a way to sneak out of here, and get into Chihuahua to try to get us a vehicle."

Don shook his head. "Even if you do, how in the hell will we get out of here? They'll be watching the roads."

"Some of these people are farmers," said Garcia. "I saw some trucks and a vehicle here and there. We'll figure something out. Sit tight." He turned and left; and Don glanced at Edgerton. Ian's eyes were on Charlie, and as he felt Don's gaze he looked up. Their eyes met, and they traded a look of wary acceptance, then Ian turned and left without a word.

Don knelt quietly next to Charlie, and the woman went into the other room, and returned with a cup, accompanied by her two daughters, who looked about seventeen and ten. They squatted and stared at Charlie, and the woman offered the cup to Don. It was odorless, and he assumed it was water, but he hesitated. He had been to Mexico several times in years past, and had gotten violently ill on more than one occasion after drinking local water. He had eventually built up immunity to it, but he knew Charlie hadn't. As weak as his brother was, he couldn't afford illness, and the dehydration that came with it.

His hopes of them having bottled water were slim, but he searched his memory for the words in Spanish. "Botella?" he asked. "Agua – botella?"

Against all odds, the woman nodded. "Si." She climbed to her feet and disappeared in the other room, and came back in with a full bottle of water. She removed the lid, and handed it to him. Don glanced at the label – it was in Spanish, but he made out the words for distilled, and mineral. "This should be okay," he murmured, to himself. He took a sip. It was a bit metallic tasting, probably from the minerals, but otherwise seemed fine. "Charlie."

Charlie's eyes drifted open, and Don put a hand under his head, gently. "Try to take some water." He held the bottle to Charlie's lips, pausing intermittently until Charlie had gotten down several swallows, then took a drink himself. He looked at the woman and nodded. "Gracias."

She nodded, smiling, but it faded to a look of sympathy as she looked at Charlie. She reached out and fingered the flimsy hospital gown, then rose to her feet and went into the other room. Don could hear her talking in rapid Spanish, then a response from one of her teenage sons.

One of the boys, probably the one that had spoken, came into the room, his head hanging, and approached one of the mats. He bent down and pulled some clothing out from under it, and turned with slow steps to Don, and held them out, reluctantly. It was a pair of jogging pants, and a T-shirt with the logo of the Mexican soccer team on the front. It was probably the only other set of clothing the boy owned, Don realized, and by his behavior, probably his favorite.

Don accepted it with a nod, then laid it down carefully, and put his hand out to stop the boy as he turned to go. He pulled out his wallet, and took out forty dollars, and held it out to the boy. In Mexico, that money could buy four sets of clothing. The boy's eyes grew large, and he shook his head. "Por favor," said Don, reaching the money toward him. The boy took it slowly, a huge smile starting to his face. Don smiled back, and the boy backed out of the room.

He turned back to Charlie, just in time to see the older girl tentatively touching his curls. She jerked her hand back with a blush as she caught Don's eye, and then she stood suddenly and made for the door, dragging her little sister with her.

Charlie's eyes were closed, but as Don spoke his name, he opened them. "I've got some clothes, Chuck; let's try to get you into them." Charlie gave a faint nod, and Don reached carefully behind his neck and untied the hospital gown, then turned him partially to untie the back. Don pulled on the sweat pants first, with the gown still covering Charlie to give him some privacy; then gently stripped it off so he could put on his shirt.

The older woman stepped in to help, and Don realized that she had been watching from the shadow of the doorway. As the gown came off, Don paused for a minute, stricken by the sight of his brother's ribs protruding through the skin of his chest, marked with bruises and healing burns, visible even in the faint light. He wondered with a sudden shock when the last time was that Charlie had eaten anything. The older woman shook her head and clucked to herself, and carefully lifted his head while Don fumbled with the shirt, then slipped it over Charlie's head. One arm went in, then the other, and as Don pulled the shirt down, a groan escaped from Charlie's lips.

He turned, curling up weakly on his side, and Don looked at him with concern. "Charlie, you okay?"

Charlie shook his head. "Aftershock," he whispered hoarsely, and straightened his limbs then curled up again, trying to ward off the pain.

There was a sound outside, a man's voice, some distance away; then one of the boys burst into the room, along with the father. There was a half-whispered excited torrent of Spanish, then the man grabbed Charlie's arm. Don stood immediately, and moved toward him, but the man motioned for him to take Charlie's other arm. Voices sounded outside again, and Don realized suddenly that it was NSA; they were searching the houses. The man motioned again toward something that looked like a doorway with fabric hanging over it, and they dragged Charlie toward it.

As the man pulled back the fabric, Don realized that it was simply a small alcove, only two feet deep. The women probably used it for changing clothes; there was a flowered print blouse on a peg. He sat down inside, his back against a side wall, and pulled Charlie in with him, leaning Charlie's back against his chest. The man lifted Charlie's legs and helped position them inside, and let the fabric drop.

Charlie's body was taut with pain, and he was holding his breath, trying to keep from crying out, gasping for air periodically. Don's heart pounded, as he assessed the situation. He knew that Garcia and Edgerton were outside, but they wouldn't have a prayer of getting inside in time to help, if he and Charlie were found. If the searchers came inside, he would have to be the first line of defense, and rely on Garcia and Edgerton to take care of any others outside. He drew up his knees on either side of Charlie to provide support; then gently leaned him forward, so he could get to his holster and his service weapon. "Just hang on a minute, Buddy," he whispered.

Charlie slumped against his knee, his head drooping, shaking with silent agony. Don set the service weapon on the floor next to his hip, within easy reach; and pulled Charlie back against him. There were low murmurs coming from the other room, which ceased suddenly, and were replaced by the sharp sound of men's voices at the door. Don stiffened; they were here. Charlie was beginning to writhe again, and Don wrapped his legs around the younger man's legs, and his arms around Charlie's torso, pinning his brother's arms, trying to hold him still. "Hang in there," he whispered.

As the voices grew louder, Don held Charlie firmly, and clamped a hand over his mouth to help hold in the cries of pain that were threatening to burst forth. Charlie closed his eyes tightly, his face twisted in agony, trembling with the effort to stay silent, and they waited, pulses pounding, behind the thin sheet of fabric.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Gabriela Cabral had little formal schooling, but she had taught herself to read. Seventeen, smart and a bit headstrong, she scavenged for scraps of printed material; her most prized possession was a discarded paperback, a novel about ill-fated lovers. Her mama called her a hopeless romantic, and Gabriela's favorite pastime, when she was not working odd jobs to make money for the family, was to make up stories of her own.

Suddenly, this evening, a romantic tale had walked into her own home. She had instantly been attracted to the ill young man on the sheet, and was overwhelmed with pity for him, and with curiosity. She had already made up half a dozen stories in her head about how he had come to be there, and all of them involved her saving his life, his recovery, and his gratitude, which ended naturally in marriage, and life happily-ever-after.

She stood in the doorway between the two rooms, and listened as her father argued with the man at the door. Her eyes fell on the thin sheet of fabric covering the alcove; if the man decided to search he would probably look there, she knew; it was the only concealed place in the room. She pondered for a moment, then slipped silently away from her family in the other room to the alcove, and ducked behind the cover.

Don hadn't heard her coming, and his heart did a painful somersault of fear as the cover was lifted, and he shot her an angry look as she slid inside next to them. "Get out of here," he whispered fiercely. "Vamos."

She shook her head resolutely, and crouched, watching Charlie, her dark eyes wide with alarm. It was taking everything Don had to hold him still, and it was taking Charlie all he had, and then some, to stay silent, as the pain mounted. He was unaware that Gabriela was even there; his eyes were shut tightly, and he shook uncontrollably, immersed in his own world, where there was room for nothing but pain. They all froze, except for Charlie, who trembled, as deliberate footsteps came through the door. It was at that moment a sudden sickening thought occurred to Don; Charlie's hospital gown still lay on the floor, along with the sheet.

Mahir's man Abboud glanced over the room, taking in the sleeping pads and the rumpled blankets and sheets absently. His automatic weapon was slung in front of him, but as he turned and his eye caught the fabric hanging, he raised the gun slightly. He tensed suddenly; the fabric had moved; just a ripple in the moonlight, and it was gone. He stared at it; then took a step forward. "Come out," he said harshly in English.

There was a muffled grunt, the soft sound of a voice; then a figure slipped from behind the curtain. Abboud relaxed as he saw her; she was just a girl, and she stood staring at him silently, her gaze direct. He eyed her with appreciation; her family was right to hide her, he thought. She was beautiful, and in other circumstances he and his partner might have been tempted by her. Tonight, though, there was no time for that. He lowered his gun and moved out of the room, treading through the communal room without a further look at the family, and out into the evening air. "This one is clear," he said in Farsi to his partner, who was standing guard outside the door, and they moved on to the next dwelling.

Don sat there long after they had gone; long after Charlie had slumped against him, unconscious, overcome by the pain and the supreme effort that it had taken to be silent. He leaned quietly against the wall of the alcove as his heartbeat quieted, offering a silent prayer of thanks, his arms still around Charlie's thin body. He sat there even after the wave of gratitude had passed, and the worry set in, wondering how they were going to get out of there and to the border, knowing that Charlie needed medical attention, fearing that their pursuers would return. The thoughts chased through his mind, one crowding out the next, until exhaustion overcame him, and he slept. Even in sleep, his arms remained around his brother, as if they had a will of their own.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 27


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28**

Charlie stirred and moaned softly, and Don snapped awake. He sat for a moment, his head foggy, trying to orient himself, taking in the early morning light that filtered through the fabric hanging. He had been up with Charlie in the night as yet another aftershock had torn his brother from sleep. Although it was bad enough, that one hadn't seemed quite as intense, and Don had hoped it was the last. As it subsided, they both had drifted back to sleep. Charlie leaned against him in the small alcove, and Don realized that his arms were still around him. His brother's body was thin, all angles, and felt so frail that it seemed as though Don's grip might crush him.

He loosened his hold and pushed a corner of the curtain aside. The Cabral family was up and gone, except for the two tiniest, who slumbered tucked in a corner. The only other figure in the room was Ian Edgerton, who sat propped against the opposite wall with his knees up, his rifle across his legs. His glance, dark and deceptively lazy, rested on Don.

As they made eye contact, he rose, and walked over to the alcove, pulling the cover aside. His eyes settled on Charlie, who blinked, then closed his eyes, his forehead furrowed with pain. Ian's gaze moved to Don. The cramped quarters looked uncomfortable. "Let's get him out of there. I think we're okay for now."

Ian grabbed Charlie's shoulders, and Don squirmed out from underneath him to his feet, wincing at the stiffness and the knifelike pain that shot through his injured arm. It was throbbing again, and the bandage was warm to the touch. He hadn't bothered to change it for two days, and now his duffel bag with his clothes and the bandages were in the Buick's trunk. He moved around awkwardly to take Charlie's legs, and he and Ian carried him out, back to the floor pad.

Charlie's face was pale, and in the daylight it seemed to have a slightly green cast. Tiny beads of sweat dotted his forehead, and he closed his eyes, as if keeping them open was too much of an effort. Don glanced up from him as Senora Cabral entered with two plastic bowls, and offered them to him and Ian, and they murmured their thanks. The bowls were filled with beans, and soft corn tortillas hung from the edges, meant to serve as both part of the meal, and as utensils. Don's stomach sprang to life at the smell, and he realized how hungry he was. He sat and broke off just a bit of tortilla, and held it to Charlie's lips.

"Hey Chuck," he said, as Charlie's eyes opened. "Here."

Charlie made a face, and turned his head away, as the woman returned with another bowl, containing what looked like gruel made from corn meal. She shook her head at Don, and he retracted his hand, and watched as she spooned up a bit of the gruel and held it to Charlie's lips. Charlie shook his head.

"Charlie," said Don, trying to swallow a mouthful of beans and tortilla, "you need to eat something."

Charlie stared at the spoon in front of him through slit-like eyes. "Don' feel good," he mumbled.

"Just try a little," said Don, and the woman offered the spoon again. Charlie took a small taste, taking his time getting it down. Don wolfed down his meal, watching as the woman fed him, bit by bit. After three meager mouthfuls, Charlie shook his head again.

Don set down his bowl, and retrieved the half empty water bottle from the night before. "Here, try a little water."

Edgerton frowned. "You realize that's not really bottled water."

Don paused, with the cap in his hand. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, they use them as containers. I saw her filling up three of them early this morning, down at the pump."

Don stared down at the bottle, disconcerted. In the daylight, he could see that the edges of the label were slightly worn. God only knew where the woman had gotten the bottle, or how often it had been used. He looked at Charlie with trepidation; who, as if to verify Edgerton's observation, began to retch, weakly. "Aw man," groaned Don, and he and Ian grabbed Charlie and turned him on his side, and winced he heaved into the bowl of gruel.

Mercifully, not much came up, and after a longer bout of retching than Don would have thought him capable of, Charlie laid back, spent. Not much _would _come up, thought Don grimly, other than the gruel, Charlie probably hadn't eaten since Wednesday morning, and hadn't had but a few swallows of water since the IV bag was removed. At five foot seven, Charlie normally weighed a mere 145 pounds, and hadn't seen that weight since before Los Padres. Don hated to think what that number was now.

Ian took a look at Don's face, tight with worry, and tried to reassure him. "Garcia left early this morning on a farm truck. He's going to line up a vehicle in Chihuahua, and come back in with the farm truck. When he gets back, we'll all sneak back out on the truck, which will get us to the vehicle."

Don sighed and nodded; his eyes still on Charlie's face. Ian watched him for a moment. "That was touch-and-go, last night. Garcia and I were that close to coming in. He didn't look behind the curtain?"

Don shook his head. "The guy's daughter slipped in there with us, right before he came in. He suspected someone was in there, but she stepped out and distracted him."

Edgerton pursed his lips. "Gutsy girl."

Don shook his head, with a glance at the doorway. "I don't see why the father would agree to help us. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad he did, but it put his family in danger."

Edgerton shrugged. "These shantytowns are pretty lawless. People do what they can to scrape by, and they're used to dealing with crime. Garcia told me that he thought the man and his boys were packing their own heat. There is no law enforcement out here; they protect their own. The money Garcia gave him will probably feed his family for a year. I suppose if your kids are starving, that's pretty hard to pass up."

He paused for a moment, his eyes on Charlie. "Garcia was going to try to get a phone in Chihuahua, but he wanted me to try to get hold of Merrick. My phone's dead. Do you have yours?"

Don fished his phone out of his pocket, opened it, and stared at it, frowning. "Mine's dead too. We're going to have to wait for Garcia."

Ian nodded. "All right, I'm going to go outside and scope things out." He stood and glanced through the door into the kitchen, where the senora had retreated with the bowls. "She's got a propane stove. I'll ask her if she'll boil some water."

Don stayed where he was, seated next to Charlie. Charlie's eyes were closed again, the furrow still between his brows, his breathing quick and shallow; the breathing of someone in pain. Don stared at him, wondering what was going on his head. The things he had been through….Charlie's eyes opened unexpectedly, and he looked at Don, as if to reassure himself that he was still there.

"How are you doing?" asked Don softly.

"Hurts," responded Charlie, weakly.

Don frowned, taking in the bruises on Charlie's elbows, and his bandaged toes. The bandages looked dirty, and something had seeped through in spots. "Where?"

Charlie closed his and whispered. "Everywhere." It was true; although the aftershocks had subsided, the abused nerve endings were now generating constant pain. In small doses, it might have been bearable, but the constancy of it was wearing, especially following the exhausting aftershocks. Charlie could feel it eating at him, dissolving the little strength he had left. Added to that was the nausea, which was growing. It had gotten quiet and he opened his eyes again, as a flare of panic hit him, thinking that Don had left.

"I'm right here, Buddy," murmured Don, noting the flash of fear on Charlie's face. He took Charlie's hand and felt something sticky. It was still slowly oozing blood from the hole made by IV needle, and had generated a crusted mess on the back of Charlie's hand. He didn't release it; Charlie's fingers had curled feebly around his, and Don tightened his grip just slightly, reassuringly.

"I thought you were dead," whispered Charlie. Don looked at him, puzzled, and Charlie continued, his voice strengthening to a half-whisper, the words punctuated by pauses for air. "Mahir told me they burned the warehouse – that you died in the fire."

Don felt a stab at his heart. Charlie had gone through mental agony on top of the physical pain, and Don knew first hand how that felt. "I thought you were too. When Edgerton brought you up from the first floor, you were unconscious, and I thought…" His voice trailed off as he remembered the sight of Charlie hanging over Edgerton's shoulder, lifelessly. "Anyway, we're not," he continued, with a small smile for Charlie's benefit. "And as soon as Garcia gets us a car, we're going home."

Charlie gave a slight nod. His eyes rested on Don, filled with trust, and Don squirmed inwardly. Even after everything that had happened, after all of the ways he had let him down, Charlie still believed in him, counted on him. He returned the gaze, knowing he didn't deserve that faith.

Charlie broke the silence. "Dad's okay?"

Don's gut twisted with fresh guilt. Dad's probably going crazy, he thought. "Yeah, he's okay – he's worried, but he's okay."

"Your team?"

"Yeah, they're okay too."

Charlie nodded and closed his eyes, still clasping Don's hand. Don stared at him, wondering again what was going on in his brother's mind. After all of this, he had the discomfiting feeling that the brother that he thought he had known all these years was an unknown – not quite a stranger, but not exactly predictable. Who would have thought him capable of what he had just done?

He was still amazed by the enormity of it, of the strength of will that his brother had displayed. Added to that was the realization that Don had come to earlier; that his love for his brother, seemingly so recently discovered, had always been there. All of it made him look at himself, and at Charlie, with fresh eyes.

Would Charlie do the same? he wondered. Get a fresh outlook from this? Would it change how he feels about me? If it made him stronger, would he need me as much? The thought made him uncomfortable, and he had a flash of insight as to how Charlie had felt all those years, thinking that his love for his brother wasn't returned.

He realized that Charlie's eyes had opened again, and he was looking at him questioningly. Don felt a sudden need to say what was on his mind, and he spoke earnestly. "I was just thinking, Chuck. What you did was – incredible. You realize that you saved millions of people. And I don't know how you did it – how you kept from giving in – I would have thought no one could do that, but you did."

"I didn't do it by myself," said Charlie. He had a strange look on his face, almost wistful.

"You were there with me, the whole time."

He gazed at Don for a moment, and Don returned the look, trying to figure out exactly what Charlie meant by that statement. '_I wasn't,' _he thought. '_He went through so much without me.'_

'_Regardless of what Charlie meant_,' he thought to himself, '_this is where I should tell him I love him; I should say it_,' but he paused. Something stopped him, and the words halted in his throat. _I'll scare the heck out of him, if I say it now,' _he rationalized. '_He's sick; he'll think he's worse off than he is – that I'm saying good-bye, like he did in the warehouse.' _

Instead, he gave Charlie's hand a small squeeze. "No, Buddy, you need to give yourself credit. You're a hero, do you realize that? What you did was amazing, and you did it on your own."

Charlie smiled wanly. Don clearly hadn't understood what he was trying to say – that Charlie's love for his brother had given him the strength to hold on. He wouldn't understand, Charlie thought to himself, because Don didn't feel that way himself. In spite of all they had been through, the emotional distance was still there, and it wouldn't close. Don would never come all the way to meet him, Charlie thought sadly, but he knew, after thinking that he had lost Don, that he would take what he could get. Don was alive, and he was here, and for now, that was enough. He tightened his grip just slightly on his brother's hand, and closed his eyes.

Don stared at him, trying to comprehend what had just happened. He had ignored another opportunity to tell Charlie something that he knew his brother was longing to hear. An inner voice told him that to unload on his brother now would be selfish – it would make Charlie worry, but he wondered if that was his real rationale for not saying anything. He couldn't ignore the other voice, even deeper, that told him that Charlie needed to hear that he loved him, regardless of the situation.

His behavior provoked feelings of guilt, but even that remorse wasn't enough to make him say what needed to be said. There was something there; a mental block that he couldn't overcome. Where it had come from, he didn't know – the job perhaps, all those years of denying his feelings, living in an atmosphere where emotions were for the weak.

Where it had come from didn't matter, he thought, grimacing. In the end, he had failed to do what he should have done, to say what needed to be said, and God help him, when the opportunity came again, he knew, with disgust at his own weakness; that he could not guarantee that he wouldn't do the same thing.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Paulson wiped at the bead of sweat rolling down his temple, and stared absently out of the windshield of the SUV. It was parked on a dirt road, the only road which led into and out of the shantytown, with the doors opened for air. He was turning over in his mind the possibility that the FBI might be communicating with Tompkins; and what that would mean for him, and the story he had been feeding his director.

He had told Tompkins that it was Conway who had taken Eppes, but if Merrick and Tompkins were communicating, Tompkins would know that the FBI had him. The question was; how likely was it that they were talking? Was this something that Merrick was doing on his own? It was possible, Paulson conceded. If Tompkins knew of the FBI's involvement, he should have told Paulson. He had to assume that Tompkins didn't know, but that Merrick could call him at any time, and tell him.

The best thing to do, he decided, was to change his story and tell Tompkins that he thought the FBI was involved, along with Conway, but to make it sound as though he wasn't sure who had Eppes. That would still implicate Conway, but it would have the ring of truth if Tompkins found out about the FBI. If Paulson played his cards right, he might even get some information out of this. He unhooked his cell phone from the charger, and dialed. While it rang, his eyes rested on the figures of Mahir and his men, stationed on the low hills above the shantytown.

Mahir stood next to his man on the hill, and scanned the village below. The men that he had assigned to comb through the houses were nearly done, after hours of fruitless searching. He was sure that his quarry was still here, however, somewhere, and they would need to come out eventually; more than likely sooner rather than later, given Dr. Eppes' condition.

Mahir had a man stationed on the dirt road, along with Paulson, examining the few vehicles that came in and out, and the other watchers could easily see the perimeters of the village; no one had come in or out on foot. When his searchers were done, he would station them inside the village, patrolling, and they would wait. At some point, the FBI team would have to move, and Mahir would be ready.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 28


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29**

Don looked at his watch, his anxiety growing. It was nearly five p.m., and he hadn't heard from either Edgerton or Garcia. Charlie's condition was deteriorating; he had been through two more aftershocks; and had gotten violently ill several times, not able to keep down the smallest sip of the water that the woman had boiled and set aside for him. Don had used part of the water to clean his brother's hand, and had bound it with strips of the sheet from the hospital.

Apart from that, he had waited; trying to give Charlie sips of water, and watching him grow sicker and weaker by the hour. Some of the psychological effects of his ordeal were also becoming apparent; Charlie was uncomfortable if Don left his side. Each time he woke, it was with a start, and Don could see the fear flare in his brother's eyes if Charlie didn't see him immediately. Once, while his brother slept, Don had slipped out to relieve himself, and when he returned, Charlie was in the middle of a panic attack, and it took several minutes to calm him.

Now, Charlie was barely conscious; pale, the beads of sweat gone, sapped by dehydration. Don watched him apprehensively, waiting, wondering if something had happened; perhaps Garcia, or Ian, or both, had been captured.

Many of the family members had returned by that time, coming back from whatever menial jobs they had found to support the family. The girl from the night before had been glued to Charlie's side since she came back, and had just reluctantly risen to go help in the kitchen, at her mother's sharp command. Don glanced at her as she went through the doorway, then shot to his feet as Garcia appeared in it, with Edgerton behind him.

"Where the hell have you guys been?" he hissed, as Garcia plopped down wearily on the floor, next to Charlie. Don sank down beside them, as Edgerton squatted.

"I got us a car," Garcia said, answering Don's question without rancor. "It's in Chihuahua, tucked behind one of the markets. The farmer who gave me a ride into town will take us to it."

"When?" asked Don.

"That's the hard part," said Garcia. "We had to come up with a way to get Dr. Eppes on the truck without the NSA guys seeing us. All the vehicles are coming back for the evening; it'll look odd if a farm truck leaves the place at night. We're going to have to wait for night, get Dr. Eppes on the truck, and drive out in the morning."

Don's heart sank as he looked at Charlie. He wasn't sure that his brother would last that long.

"They're all over the village," said Edgerton. "They seem to be done searching, but they've got guys patrolling between the houses, and men all around the perimeter."

"They're checking the vehicles too," said Garcia. "They checked the truck I was on this morning – looked right at me, but they figured me for just another worker."

Don frowned. "Well, how are we going to do this?"

Garcia smiled grimly. "You'll see, later." He looked down at Charlie, and his expression softened. "How's he doing?"

Don looked at them both, trying to communicate silently with his expression, and shook his head. '_Not good_,' said his eyes. He glanced down, and with a start, he noticed that Charlie's eyes were open, and he tried to cover, with a weak smile. "He's hanging in there," he said hastily, wondering if Charlie had seen his wordless message.

Charlie looked at Garcia and Ian, and spoke with an effort. "The water here sucks."

The professor's response, delivered in uncharacteristic language, broke the tension, eliciting a sympathetic chuckle from Garcia, and a faint grin from Edgerton. Don left the smile pasted on his face, but he knew that Charlie was trying to sound better than he was. After watching him struggle with pain and vomiting all day, Don knew what an effort it cost his brother merely to concentrate on the conversation, not to mention speaking. It wouldn't help his brother to know how worried he was, however, so for Charlie's sake; he swallowed the fear, and smiled.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Tompkins hung up the phone and stared at it; but his eyes didn't register its presence. He had just spoken to Paulson, who had told him of his suspicions that the FBI was involved. Tompkins' first emotion was frustration and anger; if the FBI was involved, why hadn't they told him? They should be communicating, working together. He had almost reached immediately for the phone, with the intention of lighting into Dave Maxwell, the FBI Director, but he paused for a moment, thinking.

As he reflected on it, he conceded the possibility that Paulson was mistaken. He didn't need to burn any bridges with a tirade without checking the facts. Walt Merrick had been straight with him; he'd try Walt first. Maybe this was just a misunderstanding.

He picked up the phone and dialed, getting a response after the first ring. "Walt, how are you?"

On the other end, Merrick tensed. He had been worried sick about his team; they hadn't reported in for hours, not since the night before. Finally, Garcia had called him that afternoon to report the situation; that they were pinned down in a shantytown outside of Chihuahua. He had given Merrick his strategy for getting Dr. Eppes out and to the waiting vehicle in Chihuahua, and reiterated the plan to cross the border at Juarez. Tompkins' call created a momentary flash of worry. Had something happened? "Bob, good, how are you?"

"Okay," replied Tompkins evenly. "Listen, Walt, I just got a report from my guy Paulson that I was wondering about. He said he thought that maybe the FBI was involved in the situation in Mexico. I didn't think it was likely, but I thought that maybe I should confirm it with you. Do you know of any teams in the vicinity?"

Merrick's heart missed a beat. Damn. They'd been found out. He thought briefly of trying to deny it, but he had no way of knowing exactly how much Tompkins knew. The man could very well be testing him. There was no choice now but to face the music; and Tompkins' justified wrath. "Yeah, Bob," he said quietly. "They're my guys."

Tompkins sat for a minute, surprised into silence. "Your guys? You didn't see the need to tell me about this? Does Dave know about it?"

Merrick sighed. "Yeah, Dave knows they're down there, but it was my idea; I talked him into it. I'm sorry, Bob. I just intended to send them down as support, oversight. Then when things went bad at the hospital, they felt the need to step in and rescue Dr. Eppes. They -,"

"What?" exploded Tompkins. "_You_ guys have Eppes?! Here we are, operating as if it's Conway, and you – goddamn it, Merrick, what in the hell were you thinking?"

Merrick felt anger rising. He knew it was ill-advised to say what he really thought, but he couldn't help himself. "Look, it's your people that we can't trust. You said that yourself. I'll be damned if I'm going to put my team in a position that'll get them killed, not to mention Dr. Eppes. If my guys weren't there, he'd be dead by now."

The last javelin hit its mark, and Tompkins winced visibly. He couldn't dispute Merrick's point. "I've got that, and I can't argue, but you should have kept me in the loop. I've got at least one clean team down there, and we could be helping each other here. So you're saying your men have Dr. Eppes. That means Conway and his people are in pursuit. In the meantime, I've got Paulson there, trying to help, but he can't figure out which end is up."

"All right, look," said Merrick. "My team is composed of three guys- Gerardo Garcia, Don Eppes, and Ian Edgerton. They've gone to ground with Dr. Eppes for the time being, I can't even tell you exactly where, but tomorrow they plan to rendezvous in Chihuahua, and take a vehicle up to the border. I've got another team waiting to meet them at the border, but they could use an escort for the ride up. If you're sure about Paulson and his guys, they could help us out that way."

"All right," replied Tompkins. "Get me the info, and I'll get it to Paulson. And Walt?"

"Yes sir."

"If you ever pull something like this again, I'll have your hide."

"Yes sir." Merrick hung up the phone, and sat contemplating the conversation. It could have been worse, he thought. It could have been a lot worse.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Things couldn't be worse, thought Don, as he crouched in the back of the farm truck. At around 11 pm, they had left the house. Garcia had thanked Senor Cabral profusely, and more money had changed hands. Garcia determined that it was the optimal time to go; most people were in for the night, but there were enough of them still moving around, enough activity in the shantytown; that their movements would not be as easy to pick out by the watchers in the hills and the streets.

As a distraction, Garcia had bought firecrackers and handed them out to the man's teenage sons. They gleefully headed for a spot on the other side of the town from the truck, and after waiting for several minutes according to Garcia's instructions, began lighting them and tearing around, laughing and yelling.

Garcia had insisted on carrying Charlie himself, and Don had allowed him. The fact was, Don's arm was becoming more painful by the hour, and although he was sure he could lift his brother, he knew that Garcia was stronger, and could probably move faster with the added weight. Slipping between the hovels, sticking to the shadows, they had made it to the truck without incident, and now he and Charlie were in for the night, tucked in a small space at the back of the covered truck bed, behind crates of melons. Garcia and Edgerton were close by, concealed in the shadows, keeping watch. In the morning, they would hop on the back of the truck bed, posing as farm workers, for the ride out.

Everything had gone as planned, Don thought to himself. The problem was Charlie. The smell of melons in the truck was at first sniff sweet and pleasant, but Don soon found that ripe melons carried a faint undercurrent of the smell of decay. In the closed back of the truck, that smell of rot and the sickening sweetness were overpowering. It had a profound effect on Charlie; nauseated as he was, the stench had sent him into wave after wave of dry heaves. He lay on his side in the cramped space, retching convulsively for hours, until he finally passed out from exhaustion. Don squatted awkwardly behind the crates, his legs screaming in protest, taking his brother's pulse periodically, nearly sick himself with worry and the cloying pervasive odor.

For Charlie, the night was pure hell. He was still fighting pain from the injections, and the nausea consumed him; at times he was so racked with the heaving that he couldn't get his breath. Eventually, fatigued beyond reason, he passed out, only to be subject to lurid dreams; visions of Mansour, Mahir, Kafa, and the NSA agents chased each other through his head. He had started to run a fever, and as the night wore on the visions began to take on substance; he was losing the ability to separate illusion from reality.

It was one of the longest nights Don could remember, but finally the sky began to lighten, and he heard movement and voices. He felt the truck bed dip and peered over the crates as Edgerton and Garcia positioned themselves on the back. The truck roared to life, and lumbered between the houses toward the dirt road. Thank God, they were moving.

Ian and Garcia felt the tension mounting as they approached the spot where Paulson's men had been stationed, on the dirt road. The casual observer wouldn't have been able to discern the anxiety; Edgerton leaned against his side of the truck with his hat tipped over his eyes, and Garcia slouched lazily against his side, for all the world itinerant farm workers. The truck ground to a halt and one of Paulson's men stepped around to the back. Ian and Garcia sat unmoving; outwardly bored, inwardly set with hair triggers, their firearms tucked between them and the sides of the truck.

Sykes glanced at the men; then lifted the canvas flap that hung behind them, and peered into the gloom of the truck. To a person standing at the back end, it appeared to be filled with melon-filled crates, and he let the canvas drop, and waved the truck onward. As it rumbled away, his eye was caught by the man on the left. It was hard to tell, with the hat tipped over the man's eyes, but he looked familiar. He stepped over to Paulson's SUV and leaned on the window, his gaze still on the retreating truck. Paulson looked up from his position in the driver's seat.

"What is it?" asked Paulson, following his eyes.

"I don't know," said Sykes, still staring at the man. "That guy just struck me as familiar, somehow." Another truck rumbled up, and he shook his head, and stepped away to check it.

Paulson's eyes narrowed in thought. They would be leaving soon; Tompkins had told them they would be assigned as an escort to the FBI team in Chihuahua, and Paulson's men and Mahir's were already gathering near the vehicles. It was a tremendous break, and Paulson was elated. He had Sykes continue to check vehicles as they got ready to leave, however, on the chance that they would get lucky. Maybe they just had.

He got out of the SUV, stepped over to Mahir, who was talking to his men near one of the sedans, and pointed to the truck, now turning onto the highway. "Have some of your men take off now, and follow that truck. It may be nothing, but Sykes thought he recognized one of the men. We'll follow behind." Mahir nodded, and turned to his men.

Garcia shifted a little and glanced at Edgerton as they hit the highway. Edgerton was staring back at the dirt road with a scowl. The truck growled loudly as it shifted, and Garcia had to shout over the noise. "Problem?"

The truck downshifted in a cloud of dust, and Ian replied. "I know one of those guys – Tommy Sykes. I worked a case with him way back. He was looking at me. I'm not sure if he made me or not."

A moment later, they had their answer, as a black sedan pulled out on the road behind them.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 29


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30**

Don felt the truck slow, then stop and begin to reverse; they were parking, he realized, with great relief. The back of the truck had gotten progressively stuffier, and the odor had eventually gotten to Don too, he had finally vomited himself, in the corner. The sour smell added to the stench. Charlie was drifting in and out of consciousness, mumbling incoherently, and his skin felt hot to the touch. Don couldn't wait to get him out of the back of the truck, and as it slowly backed up, he maneuvered himself behind Charlie, and squatting, lifted him under the arms, ready to go.

Charlie stirred and twisted suddenly, mumbling again, and Don turned him slightly so that he could see his face. Charlie's eyes had opened; and were fixed, dazedly, on the canvas flaps at the back of the truck. "The boy," he whispered, and although Don knew no one was there, he couldn't help but glance at the opening in the canvas covering.

Charlie turned his head, and his eyes connected with Don's, dark with dread. "He's marked," he rasped, and Don felt a chill run down his spine. The words brought back the psychotic break that Charlie had experienced after Los Padres, and Don's stomach dropped with a sickening lurch.

His brother's body felt like a heating pad turned up to maximum, it was throwing off uncomfortable amounts of warmth, but without perspiration – he was radiating dry heat, like a furnace, like the desert. '_I'm losing him,'_ Don thought desperately. '_I'll never get him help in time.'_

Charlie grasped his arm suddenly, his expression changing to one of fear, of anguish. "Don't let them take him," he pleaded, the words ending in a dry sob. "Don't let them."

Don felt his heart constrict in fear and sorrow. "I won't, Buddy. It's okay. I won't let them get you." Charlie stared at him for a moment with glazed eyes, and the expression faded as the lids slowly shut. He slumped in Don's arms, just as the truck halted, causing them to sway briefly.

The flap opened briefly, and Edgerton's face appeared in it. "Just hold tight for a minute," he said quietly, and disappeared before Don could speak, the flap closing behind him.

Outside the truck, Ian and Garcia moved lazily, stretching, their attitude belying the nerves strung tightly inside. The truck had backed into a loading area for an open-air market that made its home under downtown buildings, which were built on pillars. This section stretched for three blocks, the bays between the pillars were home to several vendors, and shoppers could wander in the shade underneath the buildings to do their shopping.

The car that Garcia had rented was parked on the other side of the buildings, in the street. From where they stood, they could see that street on the one side, and the street from which they had entered on the other. As they glanced back, partially hidden by their truck, they saw a black sedan cruise by slowly. The men inside the car were watching, trying to catch a glimpse of them in the open spaces between the truck and the pillars.

Garcia turned, and made a show of stretching and yawning. The black car moved on slowly, floating down the street like a shark looking for prey. "I'm going for the car," he said. "It's the blue sedan over there. I'll back right up behind the truck. Get in the truck, and help Eppes get the doctor to the end of the bed. Don't forget your rifle and the ammo. As soon as I get in position, we move, fast."

Edgerton nodded, and watched as Garcia headed out the opposite side of the building, into the bright sunshine of the street behind the buildings. As he turned, he saw the dark sedan again on the other street, cruising, and he frowned, wondering how it had gotten around the block so fast. With a shock, he realized that it was a second sedan, and the SUV containing Mahir drifted right behind it. Edgerton made a show of pulling off a crate of melons, and set them on the floor, pretending to unload the truck until they went past; then jumped into the back of the truck.

Don handed him his rifle and the bag with the ammo over the top of the crates, and Edgerton set them at the back of the truck, and then shoved the crates aside until there was a narrow path. He stepped forward to help with Charlie, but Don lifted him over his shoulder and inched through the gap. Ian heard the car pull in and the sound of doors opening, and pulling the flap aside, he jumped down, grabbing the rifle and the ammo.

Garcia was running forward, and he reached up his arms for Charlie, just a sedan nosed into view between the pillar and the truck. "We're gonna be made, we gotta go," he hissed, and he ran for the car with Charlie's limp body over his shoulder, calling back over his shoulder. "You're driving, Eppes!"

Garcia dove into the back seat with Charlie, and slammed the door shut as Don flung himself into the driver's seat. Edgerton paused for a split second to deliver a couple of rounds from his service revolver, to slow down the men who had jumped out of the dark sedan. One of them crumpled in the street, and the driver ducked back into the car, leaving him there.

Ian piled in as the car started to pull out, and Don swung it around to head down the street, tromping hard on the gas. The road was narrow; lined on both sides with buildings and the open-air market, and as the car gathered speed, an SUV pulled into sight at the end of the block. There was no way around it, and Don looked wildly in the rearview mirror as Garcia turned his head to look out the back window. A second SUV had pulled into place at the end of the block behind them, trapping them in that section of street.

"Son of a bitch," swore Garcia. "How'd they all end up here so fast?" He still had Charlie in his arms, and swayed as Don stepped on the gas. "Are you loco?" he demanded.

Don gritted his teeth and turned sharply on the wheel. "Hold on!"

The vehicle veered to the left, and Don shot between two pillars into one of the bays of the open-air market at full speed. Vendors scattered, and the blue sedan crashed through a display of live fowl, splintering cages. One of the chickens struck the windshield with such force it stuck there, and as Don caromed off the stand and flew out of the other side of the building; he hit the wipers. The limp bird slid off the windshield, leaving a smear, and Don ducked his head to see underneath the mess, as he turned the wheel hard to the left, and flew down the street.

The car shot out at the end of the block and careened right, screeching around the corner and just narrowly missing the SUV, which had backed up a block, trying to get into position to obstruct them. Their pursuers were now behind them, the SUV trying frantically to turn around.

Garcia let out a low whistle. "That's some damn fine driving, Eppes," he said with admiration. "Of course, you're heading the wrong way."

Don turned hard on the wheel again, and shot down a side street, changing direction haphazardly. "Where the hell are we going?"

An intersection shot past, with a blare of horns. "We need to get to the interchanges for the highways," replied Garcia. "Go straight for a while." He glanced back, looking for pursuers, but saw none, then frowned as he shifted his grip on Charlie, feeling the heat emanating from his body. He moved over, and laid Charlie gently down on the seat beside him, keeping a hand on him to steady him. "Highway 45 will take us up to Juarez."

Edgerton frowned. "They've gotta know we're heading that way. What about Highway 16?"

"It goes northeast, also to the border," conceded Garcia. "At the very least, they'll have to split up, some of them on 45, some on 16." The car lurched over a small rise, becoming airborne for a moment, and he held onto Charlie.

Don's brow furrowed. "How long will it take to get up to the border?"

"About four hours," said Garcia. "The crossing itself will take a while too. Merrick's gonna have a team there to meet us, and he's talking to the border guard in advance, since Charlie doesn't have a passport. Still, we need to figure on some time there."

Don shook his head. "Charlie won't make it that long." He could feel desperation rising in his gut. "Maybe we should stay here, get him into a hospital."

Garcia and Edgerton turned and looked at Charlie, frowning. He did look bad, thought Edgerton, taking in the pale, motionless form.

Garcia shook his head. "Too dangerous. We can't stay here." He thought for a minute. "I've got a better idea. When we get to the highway interchanges, take 45 South. We'll head toward Monterrey, instead."

Edgerton eyes narrowed. "How does that get us to the border?"

"The border dips south as it heads toward the Gulf," said Garcia. "If we head south, then east, we hit Monterrey, and a little east of that is Reynosa. We can go across there - we'll end up in McAllen, Texas. Plus, it's unlikely that they would think we would head south. Even if they did, there are lots of roads, a lot of smaller cities around Monterrey. We'd be next to impossible to track."

"How far is it?" asked Don.

"It is a little farther, about five hours," admitted Garcia, "but here's the other thing. I know a doctor there who makes house calls. I keep an apartment there; I can call ahead, have the doctor waiting. All in all, it's probably the fastest option for getting Charlie medical attention, and it's less risky."

Don nodded, feeling some of the heaviness lift in his chest. He turned sharply up the ramp for Highway 45 South, and the car sailed onto the highway. Moments later, at the next interchange north, two SUV's and two sedans pulled on, heading the opposite direction.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Megan paced next to the SUV, blocks from the border crossing in El Paso, her eye on the long line of cars, and the booths at the border that were their destination. Colby and David lounged against the vehicle, with just a hint of impatience on their faces. Merrick had called them just moments ago, to tell them there was a change in plans, and to stay put, promising to call them back. Megan held the phone ready in her hand, and as it rang, she flipped it open. "Reeves."

"Okay," said Merrick, "Sorry for the delay. There is a change in plans, and I needed to pass them on to Tompkins. Apparently they've picked a new crossing, the one at Reynosa and McAllen, Texas."

"McAllen!" exclaimed Megan. "That's a hike from here - it must be twelve hours. What happened?"

Merrick spoke grimly. "They ran into pursuit again. Conway and the terrorist group apparently tailed their escape vehicle – they barely got away, but Garcia said they shook them. They're headed toward Monterrey, primarily for Charlie's sake. Garcia said he's pretty sick. They're going to try to get him medical attention, to patch him up well enough to make the rest of the trip – Gerardo figured on an extra day or two, so you'll have some time to get down there, and get in position."

"You want us to go over to meet them, and cross back with them?" offered Megan.

"No, I want you down there, but directing things on the U.S. side, and to give the border contact Charlie's passport. I'm going to line up some border guards to support you. Tompkins has another team that's going to help them on the Mexican side – Jeff Paulson's guys. He's calling them now, directing them to Monterrey."

"All right," replied Megan. "We'll head down, and call when we get there." As Merrick hung up the phone, she snapped hers shut. "Okay, guys, we're on the road again. Either of you ever been to McAllen?"

They piled into the car. "McAllen?" said David. "What gives?"

"They detoured to Monterrey," said Megan. "They had to shake pursuit again, and I guess Charlie's sick – it must have been the closest place they could get him some help. They're going to try to cross at Reynosa in a day or two. Merrick wants us to get down there and wait for instructions."

"This whole thing seems off, to me," said Colby. "Every time they try to make a run, it seems like they're cut off. It shouldn't have been that difficult, once they had Charlie. Something's not right with this."

David nodded in agreement, and Megan replied softly. "Yeah, I know. It seems odd. I wish we could be there with them. I wonder how they're doing."

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 30


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31**

Alan zipped his bag shut just as the doorbell rang, and he grunted in frustration. He had a flight to catch to El Paso in less than two hours, and with the elevated terror alert, he knew he needed to be at the airport early. He strode quickly toward the door, intending to shoo away whoever it was, but stopped dead as he opened it, to find Amita and Larry on the stoop.

Amita looked at him anxiously. Alan seemed to have aged five years since she had seen him last, he looked thinner, grayer, and even more tired. "We're sorry to bother you," she said. "It's just that it's so hard to get any information, and we were wondering if you'd heard anything."

Alan collected himself, and remembered his manners. "Amita, Larry, please come in." They stepped in, Larry scratching at the back of his head, and Alan shut the door behind them. "I'm not sure what I'm allowed to say;" he said, "but it seems close enough to a resolution that I suppose I can tell you. The boys are coming over the border within the next several hours."

Amita's eyes widened, and she and Larry both smiled with relief. "That is certainly encouraging," said Larry.

Alan raised his eyebrows and tilted his head at them. "You didn't hear it from me, understand? Actually, I'm catching a flight down there today." The phone rang, and he turned to answer it. "Excuse me."

He returned moments later, his shoulders slumped. "That was Merrick. There's been a change in plans. They've picked a new crossing point, and they won't be going until tomorrow at the earliest. I'll guess I'll have to change my flight."

He shook his head, his face filled with worry. "This is the second time they've changed crossing points. Something's going on down there, and Merrick won't tell me what it is." He ran a hand over his face. "It's maddening."

Amita frowned. "I don't understand. It's been days since they rounded up the terrorist cells. You'd think as soon as they did that, it would have been safe for Charlie to come back. You said border, and down there – so he's where? Mexico?"

Alan stared at her, taken aback, as the realization dawned on him. She doesn't know what happened, he thought. Of course, she wouldn't - the last information she and Larry would have had was that Charlie was going to Washington, then out of the country. He hesitated, wondering if what little he did know was classified. How important was withholding the facts, though, he wondered, now that it was almost over? He was tired of cooperating; keeping secrets when the FBI and NSA couldn't see their way clear to give him even the most basic information. Hell, he had already screwed up, by mentioning the boys in the same breath. And if he couldn't trust Larry and Amita, who could he trust?

He indicated the sofa. "Please sit down for a moment."

They stared at him a minute, then moved to the sofa. Alan pulled a chair over to face them, and leaned toward them, elbows on his knees, his hands out in a gesture that was almost one of supplication. "What I am about to tell you is confidential," he said. "I need you to promise that you won't repeat it."

Larry frowned with confusion, but they both nodded. Amita started to feel her heart beat uncomfortably; she didn't like the look in Alan's eyes.

Alan continued. "Charlie never made it to Washington on Wednesday. He was being escorted by Don and his team, and they were ambushed on the way to the airport, and kidnapped." He watched their eyes grow round with horror, and for a moment there was no sound but the ticking of the clock. He felt a reflection of their horror, inside him, still as fresh as when he first heard it. "The NSA figured out that they were being held somewhere outside of L.A., and a team was sent in to rescue them. Don and his team were recovered, but the terrorists took Charlie with them."

He sat up and rubbed a shaking hand over his face, not sure how to deliver the next information. "Charlie was tortured, I don't know exactly how, but I know it was bad. Donnie…" his voice broke, and his eyes filled with tears. He covered them with a hand for a moment, struggling for control; then continued, his voice still cracking with emotion. "Donnie wasn't even sure that he lived through it, but –," he swallowed, "apparently he did. Merrick sent Don and some others down to Mexico to find him. I know that they did, and I know Charlie's alive, but I don't know much else."

He stopped, and looked at them, unsure of what else to say. Amita's eyes had filled with tears; her face crumpled suddenly, and she lowered it into her hands. Larry sat perfectly still, staring at him owlishly, stunned into immobility. After a second, still staring at Alan blankly, he lifted a hand and laid it on Amita's shoulder. The gesture was absent, as if the hand had a will of its own.

Alan looked down at his feet, his voice shaking. "Charlie never talked, apparently, because the apprehension of the cells was a complete surprise. The team said he was very brave." He looked up again. "And he's in good hands now - he's with Don, and he'll be home soon."

Amita took a huge shaky breath, trying to get control of herself. The poor man was trying to reassure her, she thought guiltily. She should be comforting him. "Where are they taking him?"

"It sounds like they'll be crossing the border at McAllen, Texas in a day or so," replied Alan. "Then hopefully, from there to here."

She looked at him. "Do you think – would it be okay – if I came with you? I'll need to get coverage for my classes, but I'm sure I could clear my schedule."

Larry spoke suddenly, sounding, of all things, efficient and business-like. "I have some grad students that I'm sure I could coerce into covering. I'll cover for you myself, if need be."

Alan's face softened as he looked at Amita. "I'm sure Charlie would love to see you. But it might be best if you waited to see him here. You really aren't supposed to even know where he is."

"Oh," said Amita, "oh, of course – I'm sorry – I wasn't thinking." She was still dabbing at the tears that were spilling from her eyes.

"It's all right," said Alan sadly, "It's definitely not your usual set of circumstances. I promise I'll call you and tell you how he's doing. And once he's across the border, hopefully we can get him home soon." They nodded.

Alan thought that he should have felt guilty over telling them as much as he did. Oddly, though, what he felt was relief. Shouldering the burden of worry alone had become nearly unbearable. He reached over a laid a hand on Amita's shoulder, and she smiled back tentatively, through the tears.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Marlena glanced over the supplies she had brought. IV apparatus, bags of saline, and a box of syringes lay on the table, along with her bag. She had actually been trained as a surgeon in the United States, but in Monterrey she worked in the emergency room of a hospital in the poorer section of town. She also volunteered hours of her time to care for housebound patients, and so it raised no eyebrows when she collected supplies, signed for them, and left the hospital. Getting the time off was a little tougher, but she managed, cajoling coworkers into trading shifts with her. She would do anything for Gerardo.

She glanced around the little apartment. It was small and inexpensive by U.S. standards, and Gerardo rented it to have his own place to stay when he visited her in Monterrey. She had her own key, but it had been awhile since she had been there; Gerardo had been traveling a lot lately, and was busy with his job in the States.

She felt a thrill of anticipation at the thought of seeing him, but it was tempered by anxiety. She had patched Gerardo himself up on one occasion, stitching a gash that looked suspiciously like a bullet graze, although this was the first time he had asked her to help anyone else. She couldn't imagine what circumstances would lead him to bring a sick man to his apartment instead of the hospital; the secrecy of it all frightened her a little, and she wondered what he had gotten involved in.

The apartment was a unit on the second floor at the end of the building, which sat on a narrow city street. The end units were the only ones that had two doors; most of them had a single door into the living room leading from the hallway, but this unit also had an outside door into the kitchen. That door was accessed by metal fire escape stairs that led down into an alley, and Marlena stood and wandered over to it, peering through the panes to the alley below. She had no idea how long she stood there, lost in thought, but she came to her senses as a blue sedan pulled into the alley below the stairs, and watched intently.

Two men got out of the car, and someone in the back seat handed a limp body out to one of them, who carefully pulled the slight figure over his shoulder. From her vantage point, the sick man looked smaller, like a boy or a young man, and was obviously unconscious. The person in the back seat stepped out, and she saw with a small thrill of relief that it was Gerardo. She saw him look up, and as he caught her face at the window he smiled, and raised his hand briefly. He glanced around cautiously; then pointed up the stairs. The men began to ascend them, and Gerardo climbed into the driver's seat and pulled away. He was going to park the car, she knew; there was no parking near the apartment complex itself, the nearest space was a lot at the end of the block, across a busy main street.

She unlocked the door and opened it for the men, glancing at them as they entered. The one carrying the sick man had expressionless eyes, sharp and dark, like obsidian. The other man seemed outwardly composed, but he looked pale and tired, with lines of worry etched in his face. In spite of that, he was very attractive, and she lowered her eyes self-consciously as she met his gaze. "Over here," she said, directing them to a cot next to the sofa; and the first man carried the sick man to it, and laid him down gently.

She glanced at them briefly as she bent over to examine him, her hand on her stethoscope. "I'm Marlena." She frowned as she listened to the young man's chest, the pulse was weak and slightly arrhythmic, and his breathing was shallow. He felt extremely hot, and she turned to get a thermometer. The man was sicker than she expected. "Can you tell me what is wrong with him?"

She saw the two men exchange glances, as if they weren't sure what to say, then the worried-looking one spoke. "He was – tortured." He seemed to have difficulty getting the words out, but he went on. "He's weak, and in a lot of pain from some injections he received; I guess they would have been some kind of poison."

Marlena inserted the thermometer in her patient's ear, trying not to look shocked, as the man continued. "He drank some well water in Chihuahua, and has been pretty sick ever since. I think he's running a fever."

He stopped suddenly and looked stricken, as Marlena uttered an exclamation, and turned to them, urgently. "One of you, run some cool water in the bathtub. It's in there." She pointed to a hallway. The man who had been talking turned even paler, but the other one turned without a word, and headed toward the bathroom. The back door opened, and Gerardo came in, his bulk filling the tiny kitchen.

Marlena spoke to him sharply. "Gerardo, what are you thinking? This man should be in the ICU. Come on; help me get him to the bathroom. We need to get his body temperature down, quickly."

Gerardo stepped over to the sick man and took his feet, murmuring, "It's good to see you too." She shot him a glance, the smallest of smiles on her face, but her eyes were worried. The worried-looking man moved like a robot to take the sick man under the arms, and they carried him to the hallway outside the small bathroom and stripped off his clothes. As the man stood, he swayed and staggered, and Marlena grabbed his arm and propelled him into the bathroom, sitting him firmly on the closed toilet. She gave him a sharp glance, and noted the bandage on his arm, peeking out from under his shirt sleeve. That one didn't look so well either, she thought.

"I need you to lay him in the tub," she said, delivering the order briskly. "You," she pointed at the man with the unreadable eyes –

"Ian," he replied.

"Ian, you hold his head up out of the water." He nodded and took the sick man under the arms, and Gerardo took his legs, and they maneuvered him into the bathroom, and laid him gently in the tub, which was still filling with cool water. Ian positioned himself at the head, his hands under the sick man's shoulders.

The hallway had been relatively dark, but the bathroom was bright, and in the light Marlena could see the man clearly. She had seen much in the ER, but the sight of the bruises and half-healed burns on the man's body made her pause for just a moment, in shock. She shook it off, and lifted the man's lifeless arm, looking for a vein. She made a sound of frustration as she examined it; the man was severely dehydrated. "I can't find a vein," she said, "I'm going to try to do a jugular IV after we get him out of here."

She began to look at his other injuries. "He must have an infection," she said, "in addition to the intestinal one. That should not be causing such a high fever. I have an antibiotic that I can start him on, but I will need to get something stronger from the hospital." She lifted the man's other hand, and began unwrapping the strips of cloth around it, and her eyebrows raised at the sight of the hole in the back of it, which definitely appeared infected.

"He had an IV?" she asked, glancing at Gerardo.

He nodded. "He was in a hospital in Hermosillo. We had to take him out in a hurry."

She stared back at him for a minute. "What is this, Gerardo? What's going on?"

He shook his head, his expression turning serious. "Don't ask," he said. "It's better if you don't know."

She held his gaze for a moment, then shook her head, and turned back to her patient. His toes were wrapped in dirty bandages, and although the feet were now propped up on the end of the small tub, the wrappings had gotten wet. She cut through the bandages gently, grimacing at the smell of infection that greeted her nose, and as she pulled them off; she stopped, momentarily taken aback. The toes were swollen, red, encrusted with seepage, and as the bandages were lifted, a few of the smaller toenails came with them, stuck to the bandages. One of them dropped in the tub, spiraling to the bottom, and for a moment they all watched it, in stunned silence.

Don had been sitting on the toilet, his heart thumping in fear as the doctor worked on his brother. He was still dizzy, and didn't trust himself to stand. At the sight of Charlie's toenails coming off with the bandages, he felt a rush of nausea, and he had a sudden vision of his brother disintegrating into pieces in the bathtub. It was the last thought he had, before he slumped backward, unconscious, his head saved from the floor by Garcia's quick reaction and steady hands.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 31


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32**

"Lay him on the sofa."

Marlena directed Ian and Garcia, who were carrying Don from the bathroom, as she pulled a light sheet over Charlie, who they had laid in a cot next to the sofa. She understood now, from Gerardo, that they were brothers. She rose and moved over to Don, checking his pulse, and then pulled the bandages gently from his arm, and surveyed his wound. "He has an infection also, and I believe he's dehydrated. We can get some fluids and antibiotics into him when he wakes up." As if in response, Don stirred and moaned, and an answering moan came from the cot behind her.

Marlena rose quickly and grabbed her bag, looking at Charlie intently as she passed him. His eyelids were fluttering, weakly, open and then shut, and she knew she had to work fast. Inserting a jugular IV was tricky, and it was imperative that the patient was still. It would be best to do it while he was still unconscious. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Don struggle to sit up, and she commanded him, "Lie down, please. We don't need you keeling over again."

Don ignored her, and pulled himself to a sitting position as Charlie moaned again, and twisted, gasping. Marlena was prepping his neck, swabbing it with disinfectant, and she tried to hold his head still. Charlie stopped moving but he lay there, panting for a moment, his eyes glazed and unfocused. "I need someone to hold him," said Marlena. "He needs to be completely still while I insert this."

Don pulled himself forward onto his knees next the cot, immediately, and reached for Charlie's head. Marlena shot him a disapproving glance, but he appeared to be fully in command of his faculties, so she said nothing. Gerardo stepped forward and put heavy hands on Charlie's shoulders, holding him firmly, and Ian moved down to the end of the cot, and placed his hands on Charlie's legs. Marlena positioned Don's hands. "Hold his head to the side, like so. Firmly – do not let him move. If he moves, the needle can tear a hole – and in the jugular, that would cause him to bleed out."

Don paled and swallowed, and placed his hands more firmly on Charlie's head. His brother's curls were damp from water in the tub, and it made Don's grip a bit slippery. He could feel intense heat radiating from Charlie, and his heart pounded as he watched Marlena position the needle. His vision blurred for a split second, and he shook his head slightly, to clear it. Charlie moaned again, and stiffened, and all three men tightened their grips.

Marlena began to insert the IV slowly, and suddenly Charlie cried out, and twisted. She paused for a moment in shock, as he cried out again, louder, and writhed against the hands that were holding him.

"It's an aftershock," said Don, his heart leaping in fear, as he looked at the IV, half-inserted, protruding from Charlie's neck.

Marlena grabbed Charlie's nearest arm. "Hold him, hold his arms!" Ian immediately released his grip on Charlie's legs, which began to kick, and came up next to Don, grabbing Charlie's flailing arms. His legs, now free, kicked wildly under the sheet, and his lower body twisted.

"What's going on?" The exclamation came between clenched teeth, as Marlena pushed on Charlie's chest with one hand, and held the IV line with the other, trying to buffer the effects of Charlie's movements on the needle.

In one swift move, without removing his hands from Charlie's shoulders, Gerardo straddled the cot and sat on Charlie's midsection, pinning his upper body so that it was immobile, in spite of the thrashing of his legs. "They gave him a poison, and it causes recurring pain," he said, panting slightly from exertion. He could not believe the strength of the muscle spasms that were driving Charlie's movements. "It will last for several minutes. You need to hurry."

It was all Don could do to hold Charlie's head down; he was pushing so hard that he knew that the pressure of his grasp alone would hurt, but he had no choice – Charlie was twisting with enormous force. "It's okay, Buddy, relax," he said desperately.

"Nnoo," moaned Charlie, and cried out again as the pain mounted.

Marlena grasped the IV and finished the insertion. Once the canula was firmly in place, she deftly removed the needle and then began to secure the IV to Charlie's neck with tape. "You need to keep holding, him, even after I'm done," she said urgently. "He cannot be allowed to move, other than very slowly and very gently, now that the IV is in." She sat back, watching, sickened, as the men held down the slight body, and tried to compose herself, as the screams reverberated through the room.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don gasped and woke with a start, torn from sleep by garish nightmares of Charlie being torn limb from limb by terrorists, who were flinging the appendages into a bathtub. He raised himself up on his elbows, wincing at the pain in his arm, beads of sweat on his forehead, and tried to gather his senses. He had gotten dizzy again after dealing with Charlie, and as soon as the aftershock subsided and Charlie was stabilized, he had made his way back to the sofa. He had closed his eyes, trying to ward off the vertigo, and before he knew it, he had passed out from exhaustion.

He was still lying there, on the sofa, and Charlie was still right next to him, on the cot. Charlie was also stirring and moaning softly, enmeshed in nightmares of his own, but to Don, that seemed an improvement, after the frightening stillness, the deep unconsciousness that Charlie had been submerged in when he arrived there.

Don struggled to a sitting position, his hand absently traveling to his sore arm, and he realized that he was wearing a clean bandage. He must have really been out; he didn't recall Marlena changing it. He could see into the kitchen from where he sat; Garcia and Marlena were sitting facing each other at small nook table tucked under the kitchen window, talking softly. Don stared at her for a moment, taking in her profile. He couldn't help himself; she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Even as shell-shocked and worried as he was when he arrived, he had noticed that – it was hard to deny the almost tangible surge of attraction he felt when he saw her.

He thought of Liz, guiltily; then told himself that it really didn't matter if he was attracted or not – Marlena obviously belonged to Garcia. They had a familiar way about them, about their actions, their words, that spoke of a long relationship. Garcia was a lucky man, he thought, and he tore his eyes away from her, and focused on Charlie.

As he studied the thin, pale face, the tendrils of hair still damp around it, he was filled with a sudden sadness, a deep pity that was rooted in an emotion even stronger, and he reached at hand out and gently touched Charlie's curls with his fingertips. As a gesture, it seemed intensely personal, and he drew his hand back after just the slightest caress, knowing that he wouldn't have dared it had his brother been awake. He could see faint bruises on the side of Charlie's face, and knew with regret that he had put them there; they were marks from his fingers, made while he had held his brother's head during the aftershock. In slumber, Charlie's boyish face looked even more innocent, and Don was struck by the injustice of it all. No one should have to go through such agony, he thought. Especially not Charlie. He sat silently, brooding.

Marlena's quiet voice startled him out of his thoughts, and as he looked up at her and their eyes met, he felt a jolt of electricity pass through him. He hadn't realized that she had entered the room. She stared back for a moment; then said, "His fever is coming down – it is still very high, but there's improvement. I went back to the hospital while you were sleeping, and got a stronger antibiotic. It appears to be working."

Her English was excellent, and Don wondered where she had learned it. She stepped forward and sank gently on the sofa beside him, and the electricity increased in voltage. "Gerardo tells me you are brothers," she said. Her eyes traveled to Charlie. "He is lucky to have a brother who cares so much."

Don felt a sudden rush of guilt at the words, and he kept his eyes on Charlie, so they wouldn't betray him. '_Yeah, I care,'_ he thought sarcastically, angry with himself. _'I care, but I can't say it. I let him down, at every turn. I didn't keep him safe physically, and I sure as hell can't give him what he needs emotionally. He's damn lucky, all right.'_

She glanced at him sideways, under lowered lids, taking in the suddenly dark expression and studying his profile, which had the effect of making her heartbeat quicken. "Brothers can be difficult sometimes," she said quietly.

Don latched on to the statement, glad to turn the conversation to someone other than himself. His eyes drifted out to the kitchen, where Garcia was opening and closing cabinet doors. Edgerton was nowhere to be seen. "You have brothers?"

She raised her eyebrows at him, mildly amused. "Gerardo, for one."

Don's heart gave an odd little leap. "He's - Gerardo's your brother?" he stammered.

She smiled at his slightly flustered expression. "Yes. We should introduce ourselves. I'm Marlena Garcia." She held out her hand, and Don took it. It felt smooth and cool.

"Don Eppes," he said, and their eyes held for a minute.

She cleared her throat and released her hand, with a self-conscious glance toward the kitchen as the door to the outside opened and shut, and she switched personas, suddenly the brisk doctor. "Gerardo went to get food. The wound in your arm was infected; I need to clean it and applied new bandages, but to be safe you should get an injection of antibiotic. I wanted to wait until you woke. You are also moderately dehydrated – you need to get some fluids in you."

Don nodded, still staring at her. "I thought Gerardo was born in the States. You weren't?"

She smiled. "Oh yes, I was. My parents were born in Mexico, but Gerardo and I, and our sister and brother, were born in the U.S. – in L.A."

Don grinned. "L.A., huh? Small world."

His smile made her catch her breath, and she looked down, blushing slightly. "After I graduated from medical school, I decided to work in Mexico for a while."

She took in Don's questioning look and felt the need to explain. "We still have family in Monterrey, and I guess I was feeling my roots. Mexico is changing rapidly, the economy is growing, but even now, there are people here that need so much. I wanted to go where I could help those who need it most. Someday, I'll come back to the United States, but for now, this is home."

Don nodded, and a brief silence fell. Marlena spoke again, her eyes wandering toward the kitchen. "Gerardo, on the other hand, is a U.S. citizen, through and through. He feels very strongly about his country. I do also, I love my country, but I also love Mexico. With Gerardo, there is only one, America. He would die for her." She smiled at Don, a hint of worry and sadness in her eyes. "I'm worried someday he will."

Don smiled again, and Marlena felt like the sun had broken into the room. She loved his dark eyes, the way they crinkled at the corners when he smiled. Don spoke, reassuringly. "Gerardo's a top notch agent. I know he's impressed the heck out of me. He can hold his own against anyone, I'd bet on it."

Marlena smiled in return. "He thinks very highly of you also. He said he worked in the Albuquerque office, after you had gone, before he went to Tucson. He says you're still a legend there."

Don reddened and rubbed the back of his neck. "Oh, I don't know about that…and I'm not sure how much help I've been on this trip." His eyes traveled to Charlie. "With everything that's happened it's been kind of hard to keep my head in the game," he admitted softly.

"I think that impressed Gerardo more than anything else," Marlena replied, following his eyes to the figure on the cot, which was starting to stir again. "He told me that the successful ones in this line of work compartmentalize, shut off so much that eventually they're no longer human. He doesn't want to be that way – to be someone who can no longer communicate emotionally. Your devotion to your brother really struck him; he admires that."

The words hit home like a hammer, and Don fell silent. That was what he was all about, really, shutting off emotions. He'd been doing it since he was a kid, denying all these years how he felt about Charlie, and now, even when he had begun to realize why he was doing it, and how he really felt, he still couldn't communicate it to his brother. Successful, Garcia had said. Was this what success felt like? Hollow, painful, frustrating… Was that what he was becoming? The burned-out, brutally efficient agent; admired and feared by his colleagues and underlings. An Ian Edgerton. _Unapproachable, emotionally inaccessible, but damn, he's good at his job_. A success.

He smiled, but the warmth had left his eyes. "I think Gerardo gives me a lot more credit than he should."

Marlena thought otherwise, but she held her tongue. Her patient stirred and moaned, and she rose and took another temperature reading. "Down to 105.1," she said, and Don looked at her, startled.

"What was it to begin with?"

"The first time, 106.7. You got him here just in time. The fever, the dehydration, was extreme. He really should be in a hospital, but Gerardo doesn't want to chance it. And as long as the antibiotic is working, he should be okay here. He is still very sick, but if the recovery keeps up at this pace, we should see dramatic improvement by tomorrow."

"Did he wake up while I was out?" asked Don, remembering Charlie's rambling in the back of the truck, with trepidation.

"He opened his eyes once or twice, and said some things that made no sense, but that's understandable. He's delirious with fever."

"Delirious," repeated Don, as a bit of relief settled in his soul. "So he sounded crazy, but he isn't, really. It's the fever."

Marlena looked at him, her eyes narrowed, and she crossed over to the table and picked up a syringe, removing the protective cap. "Probably. Why do you ask?"

Don hesitated for a moment. "A few months ago, he had to be hospitalized for a psychotic break. It was from a reaction he had to going off drugs he was given for post-traumatic stress. He was starting to sound like that again, before we brought him here – I wasn't sure…"

As if he had heard them, Charlie groaned and twisted on the cot suddenly, rambling. "He's not bad, don't mark him," he moaned, "don't take him, don't…" The words trailed off into muttering.

"Like that?" asked Marlena.

Don's stomach was balled like a fist, and he stared at Charlie apprehensively. "Yeah," he said hoarsely. "He's talking about what happened to him before, and I think he's mixing it up with his recent kidnapping."

Marlena walked over to him with the syringe, and a swab. "We won't be able to tell for sure until the fever recedes," she said. "But I really do think it's delirium from the high temperature." She held up the syringe. "I need to give you this."

Charlie groaned, as the dream played in his mind. _He was strapped to a chair, and Mahir stepped forward toward him, holding the syringe. "You've been marked," said Mahir, smiling cruelly. "You must be punished." He lifted the syringe, the needle glinting in the light of the bare bulb._

Charlie's eyes flickered open as Marlena held up the syringe, and he saw it silhouetted against the ceiling. "NO!" he screamed, thrashing wildly on the cot, trying to free himself from the sheets. "NO!"

He lurched over the side, sheets and all, as Don sprang to his feet and grabbed him. Charlie was writhing with more energy than Don would have thought possible, and Don sat down hard on the ground, trying to gain control of him, trying to keep Charlie from dislodging his IV. He ended up with Charlie held tightly against him, his brother's head against his chest, and as Charlie realized he was pinned, he stopped struggling, and began to sob, his tears dampening Don's shirt.

Charlie still felt unbearably hot, and Don rocked him as if he was a child, speaking soothingly. "It's okay, Buddy, I've got you. It's okay."

Marlena had grabbed the IV bag from the stand and held it close to Charlie, so he wouldn't pull on the tube. She stood there, holding it, and watched them for a moment, her brow furrowed with concern. She had spoken with assurance about the delirium, but in truth, she wasn't so sure. The young man had been tortured; it was conceivable that his mind had broken from the pain, the sickness, the suffering he had been through. She was not about to tell Don that, however; and add to the agony she already saw in his eyes. They would know within hours whether it was delirium, or something more disturbing.

One thing she did know, she thought, as she watched Don cling tightly to Charlie, her brother was absolutely right. Even if Don Eppes disagreed with Gerardo's statements, it was plain to see that he was devoted to his younger brother, whether he admitted it or not; just as it was apparent that she was beginning to fall in love, whether she acknowledged it, or not.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Paulson pulled out his cell phone as the SUV sped through the city limits of Monterrey. He had gotten the call from Tompkins that the FBI team had changed plans a few hours ago; when they were already an hour north of Chihuahua on Highway 45. Mahir and his men had taken Highway 16, and Paulson had called them immediately, and they reversed their course, converging on Highway 45 south. Now they had reached Monterrey. Paulson could see Mahir's SUV up ahead as he dialed.

"Still no word as to where they are," he said, as Mahir answered the phone. "The feds are playing it close to the vest. Tompkins said that Merrick told him that Garcia refuses to give him their location until they're ready to roll. I don't know if that's true, or if Merrick's playing Tompkins, but either way, we're going to have to look for ourselves."

"Monterrey is a big city," replied Mahir.

"I realize that, but what else would you have us do? At the very least, we'll get a call when they head for the border; we're supposed to escort them. In the meantime, we can search. I'm guessing that the doctor needs some medical attention. My team will take the hospitals, and your men can hit the streets, and look for the car. We'll do what we can until night, then stop and get some rest."

Mahir grunted approval. His men were exhausted, and the killing of his man in the marketplace earlier did not help morale. "Good. I will assign my men." He hung up, and began dialing the drivers of the sedans. A few moments later, the caravan began to break up as one sedan, then another, took exits for connecting roadways. Last to split were the SUV's, and the vehicles, now separated by space, set off to different destinations, still joined by their common goal - to find and kill Charles Eppes, and the men with him.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 32


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter 33**

Morning light filtered into the apartment, and Don stirred and stretched on the sofa. He could smell coffee, and he glanced toward the kitchen. Marlena was up, padding around in the kitchen quietly on bare feet, wearing Capri jogging pants and a T-shirt. As captivating as the picture was, Don had other concerns, and he turned his head toward Charlie as he pushed himself up to a sitting position.

Charlie was sleeping peacefully, and although his face was still pale and painfully thin, the fluids had filled it out a little. His eyes were no longer sunken, and his breathing appeared regular, although there was a slight furrow in his brow, as if even in sleep he felt pain. Don stared at him quietly for a moment; then ran a hand through his hair, stiff with dirt. God, he needed a shower. And clean clothes – the ones he was wearing were his only set; he had left his bag in the Buick outside the shantytown. The car had been dismantled for parts by scavengers within hours, and Don was sure that his clothes were now on the backs of the shantytown dwellers.

Charlie could use clothes too, he thought, as he glanced at his brother. The jogging pants and yellow T-shirt that they had been given by the Cabral boy lay on the floor in pile. After pulling Charlie from the tub and toweling him off, they had laid him on the cot, and he was now wearing nothing but a sheet. It had slipped down to waist level, and Don reached over and pulled it up gently, partly to be sure his brother was comfortable, and partly because he had a hard time looking at Charlie's chest, with its protruding bones and bruises. As he did so, he laid a hand on Charlie's shoulder. His temperature was down quite a bit; the skin was warm, but it felt close to normal. Don took a deep breath of relief; but it was tempered by anxiety; he couldn't help but wonder about his brother's mental condition. Charlie stirred and sighed, his frown intensifying, and Don quietly removed his hand and rose, heading for the kitchen.

As he stepped in, Marlena handed him as steaming mug of coffee. "Good morning," she said with a smile, and he felt his heart do a strange little flip as he looked in her eyes.

He smiled back. "Good morning." He took a sip; coffee had never tasted so good. He had a sudden vision of what it would be like to walk into the kitchen each morning to meet her, and share coffee. He pushed it away, guiltily, and lowered his eyes as he took another sip. '_You're already in a relationship, Eppes,'_ he told himself. _'Just cool it.' _His eyes met hers over the rim of the cup, and despite what his mind was telling him, the sight of her made his heart dance, again.

"How do you feel?"

"Better – quite a bit."

She nodded. "You were all exhausted – Gerardo is still asleep on the bedroom floor."

Don glanced back into the living room. "Where's Ian?"

"I think he went back out early this morning," she said. "He slept on the floor in the living room – you were asleep again by the time he came in last night. He talked to Gerardo for a bit; then they both went to bed too."

Don shook his head. "I can't believe I went back to sleep." He frowned, trying to remember how it happened. Gerardo had brought food in, carnitas, delicious tortillas filled with shredded meat from a vendor down the street, and after Don had eaten, they had talked for a bit, then he sat back down on the sofa, and…He looked at her, at little embarrassed. "I was sitting there; I must have nodded off again."

She smiled. "You needed it." The conversation trailed off, and they stared into each other's eyes for a long minute. The air was thick with the electricity of attraction.

She broke the mood, and her gaze, and headed around him, toward the living room. "I should take your brother's temperature," she murmured.

Don trailed after her into the room, taking in a faint scent of fruit and flowers – her perfume, or her shampoo, perhaps. It reminded him of how grimy he was. As they entered, Charlie stirred and moaned, and Don was at his side in an instant, his olfactory musings forgotten.

Charlie's face was contorted in an expression of fear, or pain, or both – Don couldn't tell. He twisted, and his eyes opened suddenly, staring blankly at the ceiling. Don held his breath. The eyes wandered, and Charlie stared at Marlena for a moment, a frown forming on his face. "_Say something_," thought Don, anxiously looking for confirmation that Charlie was all there.

Charlie's eyes were glued on Marlena, who smiled reassuringly. "Where's my brother?" he asked, and though the words were weak, Don's heart leapt with joy.

"Right here, Buddy," he said, and smiled as Charlie turned his head, relief flooding into his face. His hand moved slightly, and Don took it, the thin fingers curling up into his own. "How are you feeling?"

Charlie closed his eyes; then opened them again. "Better," he got out. Don let out a pent up breath, and said a silent prayer of gratitude. Charlie was still weak and sick, but he was sane.

Marlena stepped forward with the thermometer. "I'm Marlena, Gerardo's sister. I'm a doctor." She knelt and inserted it gently into his ear. "Can you answer some questions for me, Charlie?" He blinked, and she took it as assent, continuing before he could answer. "How is the nausea?"

"Gone," whispered Charlie. He blinked again, as the room spun. "Dizzy, though." He closed his eyes, trying to ward off the spinning.

"Your blood sugar is probably very low," Marlena said. "I'm going to get you some crackers in a moment. Your temperature is 101.3, much better. Does it hurt anywhere?" She frowned as he nodded, his eyes still closed. "Where?"

"Everywhere, still," said Charlie, his eyes now half open, his face tight with pain.

Marlena frowned in puzzlement. "Do you know what it's from? Everything hurts?"

Don answered for him. "It's probably from the injections they gave him. They caused waves of intense pain for several hours. Afterward, they left him with this – a constant pain, but not as intense."

Charlie nodded; his eyes closed again, and took a few breaths. It was obviously costing him energy that he didn't have to talk; he looked exhausted by the end of the short conversation.

Marlena looked at Don. "I'll give him some pain medication. Try to prop him up with some of those cushions from the sofa. I want to get a little food in him before he goes back to sleep." She rose and went into the kitchen as Don pulled cushions off the sofa, and she returned with a glass of water and some saltines, as he was attempting to gently wedge a pillow in under his brother's shoulders. She set the water and crackers down, and grabbed the cushion and the IV line, allowing Don to take Charlie's shoulders and lean him forward. Charlie tried to push himself up, wincing, his arms trembling.

Eventually he was situated, and Marlena handed him a cracker. He raised his hand slowly to take it; it shook badly from the effort. Don took the cracker from her and began to break off pieces, feeding them to Charlie one at a time. He dropped his hand and chewed slowly, with his eyes closed, Marlena giving him sips of water to help him swallow. Don's heart ached as he watched Charlie struggle with the simple task; it made it painfully clear how weak, how helpless his brother had been made by the ordeal.

He only managed to get six of them down before he began slumping sideways from exhaustion, and Don eased him back into a prone position as he slipped the cushions out from behind him. Charlie was out almost before he hit the pillow. God knows, he needed a lot more than few crackers, thought Don, but at least it was a start.

Marlena checked the bag of saline and medication. It was almost empty; she would need to change it soon. She left the room, flashing Don an encouraging smile.

Don sat beside his brother for several minutes, and then convinced that he would sleep for a while; he stood, and went back into the kitchen. "Is there anywhere around here where I could get some clothes?" he asked her. "I could use a spare set, and so could Charlie."

Marlena considered for just a moment. "Yes, there is a shop. If you go out the front of the building and go left until you get to the corner, then make a right, cross the street and go two blocks, there's a place that sells clothing. I'm not sure if they take U.S. currency, but there's a bank two doors down from them, if you need to exchange. If you wait a little, I'm sure Gerardo will be up; he can go with you. It's almost ten; he should be getting up anyway."

As she spoke, they could hear the shower come on in the bathroom. Now that his worry over his brother was eased; and he himself was rested, the urgency for cleanliness began override everything else, and the sound of the shower intensified that feeling. "Nah," Don said. "I can handle it. I'll run down there and grab some clothes, and come back and get a shower. If Charlie wakes up, tell him I'll be right back."

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Edgerton slipped around the corner, and lounged against the side of the building in the shadow of an awning. He had been out on the streets last evening on self-imposed sentry duty, wandering the adjacent blocks to the apartment, watching the street. Even though he had seen nothing, and there was no real reason to believe that he would, after a few hours of much-needed sleep, he went back out early in the morning. Restless by nature, he preferred to be doing something, anything, rather than sitting and waiting. He had made his way up and down the streets, keeping to covered storefronts and narrow alleys, and was now coming back up toward the apartment.

The street he was on was a main thoroughfare, and the street that the apartment was on crossed it. The intersection was just ahead; if Ian turned right at the corner he would find himself back at the apartment building, halfway down the block. To the left, and across the main street, was a parking lot. He could see their blue sedan sitting in it from where he stood.

He pulled himself away from the building, ready to head down the block toward the apartment, when the SUV caught his eye. He immediately ducked back against the wall, lounging in the shadow, and watched intently. It was probably nothing, he told himself, but as he watched, he became less sure of that. The tinted windows were too dark to know for sure, but the SUV was cruising slowly, and it had U.S. plates. It came to a halt at the corner, then turned toward the parking lot, and pulled into it.

"Shit," Ian swore softly under his breath, as he saw Mahir and his men step out from the SUV, and surround the blue sedan. One of the men leaned over and pulled something from the grill and held it up; it was white, and Ian realized it must be a feather. The men looked around them, scanning the buildings; then Mahir pulled out his cell phone and dialed. Ian had seen enough. The alley to the apartment could be accessed from the street behind him, and he slipped back around the corner. He needed to get in and warn the others, before Mahir and his men spread out in the surrounding streets.

In the alley, he took the metal stairs two at a time, and burst through the kitchen door. Marlena and Garcia looked at him, startled, Garcia's hair still wet from his shower.

"They're here," said Edgerton tersely. "They found the sedan. It's part of the terrorist group; it looked like they were calling in reinforcements."

Garcia looked incredulous. "What?" His expression immediately turned dark and angry. "That's it. I'm done with telling Merrick, or anyone else, where we are, or where we're going. Someone inside had to tell them. They had to!"

Marlena looked back and forth between them, her face pale. "What is it? What's going on?"

Edgerton glanced at her, but didn't answer the question. "Is this apartment under your name?" he asked Garcia.

"Not Garcia," Gerardo replied, "I was on an undercover assignment when I first leased it, and I left it under that name – Villanueva."

Edgerton nodded. "So if they look up the Garcias in the phone book in the immediate area, they won't find this place. We're safe for the time being, we just need to hole up, and figure out how to get out of here."

As she heard that, Marlena gasped. "Oh, my God – Don just left – he went out to get clothes!"

"What?!" exploded Gerardo. When he had finished with his shower, he had tiptoed through the living room with a glance at Charlie, and hadn't looked closely at the sofa. Out of the corner of his eye, the pillows and rumpled blanket on it had looked like a person, and he assumed it was Don Eppes, still sleeping. Now he looked into the living room, as if he somehow expected him to be there. "Damn it," he swore, running for his shoes, calling back over his shoulder. "Where'd he go, Marlena?"

"To that clothing store around the corner," she said. "I can't remember the name – the one near the bank."

Edgerton looked at her. "Which way is that?"

Garcia dashed back in the room, adjusting his shoulder holster. "Right on the same damn street as the parking lot. Let's go!"

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don examined the signs and the storefronts on the buildings beside him as he turned the corner and started down the block. It felt good to move and stretch his legs; he was feeling his mood start to lift a little, after the rest, and his relief at Charlie's obvious improvement. He glanced absently, automatically, at the people in the street, the agent in him taking in his surroundings, and his eye was captured by a woman approaching him. She looked like Marlena at first glance, and his eyes followed her just a bit longer than they should have.

He wasn't sure later if it was the distraction she caused, or if he was feeling a little too at ease and was not as aware as he should have been, but he didn't see the figure in the narrow shaded alleyway until he had almost passed him. He tensed and started to turn as the figure stepped out, but froze as he caught the pistol leveled at him out of the corner of his eye. A hand clamped onto his arm, and the pistol moved underneath it against his ribs. "Into the alley," the figure's voice commanded him.

He tensed, prepared to resist, when another man came up behind him, and grabbed his other arm, steering him into the shadows of the alley. It was narrow and deeply shaded, and the brightness of the sun in the main street made it seem dark. It opened at the other end into another alley, and they forced Don almost all the way down to where the alleys connected, as far from the main street as possible.

The hands pushed Don against the wall, forcibly, searching him for a weapon. He had left his gun at the apartment, not wanting to attract attention if he happened to run into local police, but it wouldn't have mattered anyway. Even if he was wearing it, he wouldn't have had a chance to access it. He swore at himself under his breath for being such an easy mark, as his captors turned him roughly around to face them, holding a pistol against his neck.

He recognized the terrorists from the warehouse, and as he turned he saw Mahir and another man coming down the alley toward him. He glared at Mahir with pure hatred as the Iranian stepped in front of him, and Mahir smiled. "Agent Eppes. So good to see you. We were not introduced properly before. Tell me, how is your brother?"

"You son of a bitch," snarled Don, flexing his hands into fists, and the first two men moved to either side of him, pinning his arms.

"We can make this quick, or long and painful," murmured Mahir. "Surely you know what agony I can inflict. Tell us where your brother is."

Don sneered at him. "I'll be damned if I tell you anything."

Mahir sighed. "Obstinate, just like your brother. Yes, you'll be damned, infidel. You will rot in hell when we are done with you." He stepped back and gave a curt nod, and the man next to him drew back his arm, his fist exploding into Don's gut, followed by another blow to his jaw. Don saw stars and gasped for air, as the fists landed again, and again.

Mahir watched coldly, and stepped back, opening his cell phone, and dialing Paulson. "We have Agent Eppes," he said when Paulson came on the line, and rattled off their location. "Do you have any of the syringes left? One? Good. Bring it, as quickly as possible."

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 33


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter 34**

The two teenage boys peered into the alley, pointing excitedly at the drama in the shadows. Mahir's man stopped his blows, and turned toward them menacingly, and they fled, bolting down the sidewalk like frightened antelope.

Ian and Gerardo had turned the corner, headed that direction, and Garcia watched the boys go. "Did you see that?" Edgerton nodded, and they sprinted to the alley opening. Edgerton flitted past it, casting a quick glance, and spun, with his back to the wall on the other side, his service weapon raised to his face. Garcia took the other corner, and approaching pedestrians backpedaled and scattered at the sight of the guns.

They exchanged a quick glance and whirled into the alley, weapons leveled. Edgerton didn't wait to give them a warning; he sighted down the end of his pistol and fired at a figure with his fist raised, and they both tore down the alley, Garcia shouting, "FBI! Hands in the air!"

Don turned his head away from the upturned fist, and felt a warm spray hit the side of his face. Edgerton's shot had caught the man in the throat, and he tottered and went down, gurgling and gasping horribly, blood spouting from his neck, his face a mask of shock. The other two men released Don, and they and Mahir backed quickly toward the corner, pulling their weapons. Don staggered and collapsed to his knees, dropping to all fours with a ragged sound, a combination of a cough and a groan.

He could hear shots being exchanged over his head, and he looked dazedly toward the terrorists, as another of them dropped, and Mahir and the remaining man disappeared around the corner of the connecting alley. Edgerton flew past him to the corner, and Garcia bent over him, and helped him to a kneeling position. Don heard another shot, and then Ian was beside him also, and Don shook his head, trying to clear it.

"You okay, man? Come on, we gotta go," said Garcia, and he and Ian lifted Don to his feet, and supporting him under the arms, turned and ran, Don stumbling, toward the connecting alley.

After a few steps, Don found his feet, and began to support himself, albeit unsteadily. "I got it," he gasped, trying to pull away from the strong arms, as they reached the end of the alley, which let out on the street where the apartment building was located.

"Get him to the apartment, and get Charlie," Garcia commanded. "I'm going for the car. We need to head out now – they're gonna have reinforcements here in minutes." He released his grip on Don, and sprinted off to the right, toward the parking lot. Don seemed a bit steadier on his feet, and Ian shifted his grip, but kept a steadying hand on Don's upper arm, as they lurched across the street.

They clambered up the stairs and burst into the kitchen, and Marlena let out a cry of surprise and shock at the sound, and the sight of Don's blood-smeared face. She stepped toward Don, but he pushed past her, headed for his service weapon.

The noise was enough to rouse Charlie, even as groggy as he was. His eyes widened as he took in Don's face, bruised and bloody, and he struggled to his elbows, and then pushed himself up to a sitting position, fear giving him strength. "Don?"

Don turned and caught the panic in the dark eyes. "It's okay – I'm okay. Just got roughed up a little. We've got to go, Charlie." He snatched Charlie's pants and the yellow T-shirt from where they were piled in the corner, then turned and grabbed his brother's arm as Charlie swayed unsteadily. "Lie down; we'll get these on you."

Marlena stood watching them, with her mouth open. "He's in no condition to move," she protested, finding her voice, as Don flung down the sheets unceremoniously and began pulling on Charlie's pants.

"We have no choice," Edgerton said coldly, as he gathered up the ammo bag and his rifle. She stared at them, stunned, watching as they worked feverishly. The back door banged, and Garcia barged into the room, his size and the adrenaline he was emitting giving him the appearance of a bull.

"We gotta go, now!" he said. He looked at Marlena. "You need to get out of here. There's an old woman at the end of the hall in number 21, Senora Portillo – she loves to talk. Go down and camp out with her for an hour, until you're sure everyone's gone, then leave the building. Don't come back to the apartment."

She shook her head, fear and sadness in her face. "Gerardo –"

"No arguments, pequeña1," he said. "I'll call you as soon as we're over the border."

She stared back at him for a moment; then took at deep breath, resignation in her face, as she looked at Don and Edgerton, who were preparing to lift Charlie. "Wait," she said, "He shouldn't be moved around with the jugular IV." She grabbed her bag, and rummaged in it for bandages and gauze. Working swiftly, she withdrew the IV, and bandaged Charlie's neck. "He needs to go to a hospital, as soon as you get there. Be safe."

Garcia nodded, and giving her a quick kiss on the cheek, turned and leapt down the stairs with the rifle and ammo bag. Edgerton pushed past her with Charlie, and Don followed, pausing for just a moment to look at Marlena. They traded a look fraught with meaning, filled with unsaid words of passion, fear, and longing. "Thank you," said Don. "Thanks for taking care of my brother."

She nodded, and turned and snatched two water bottles and a rag and pushed then into his hands. "Go, and be careful. Call me, and let me know how he's doing."

A fleeting smile fought through the tension, and warmed Don's battered face. "I'll do that. Take care of yourself." With that he was gone, and she stepped toward the window, tears filling her eyes as she watched them jump into the blue sedan. She was still standing there, moments later, long after it had turned the corner and disappeared.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Ian had situated Charlie in the back seat, leaning in the corner created by the seat and the door, and Don jumped in back with him. Garcia tromped on the gas, and the blue sedan surged out of the alley, and made a hard left. Even wedged in the corner, Charlie was having a hard time holding himself up, and Don reached out a hand and grabbed his upper arm, as the sedan went sharply around the next corner.

Charlie was staring at him, wide-eyed, and Don released his grip and looked self-consciously in the rear-view mirror. He looked hideous; his left cheekbone and jaw were bruised and swelling, and drying blood covered his face, which was rough with stubble. Passport and federal ID or not, he'd be surprised if the border guards let him across looking like that.

He glanced down at his hands and realized suddenly why Marlena had given him the water bottles and the rag, and he twisted a cap off with a grimace. Now that was a nice last impression to leave her with, he thought with chagrin. He shot a look out of the back window as he poured water into the rag, and began to wipe his face, wincing as he went over the bruises.

Garcia was pulling out his cell phone. "Anything?" he asked, casting a look at Don in the rearview mirror.

Don continued wiping, staring out the back. "Nothing. How'd you guys know to come after me?"

"I saw Mahir and his men pull up, and went around the back way to the apartment," said Ian. "I must have just missed you – Marlena told us where you went."

Don nodded. "I owe you one." He shifted in his seat and winced again as his battered gut protested, casting a look at Charlie, whose brow was furrowed with concern. "I'm okay, Charlie, really," he said reassuringly, trying to smile. It came out lopsided. "You hit me harder than that when I took Val to the prom."

A faint smile came to Charlie's lips, but he said nothing. Don looked closer, and realized that it was probably because Charlie was breathing a little heavily, simply from the exertion of trying to stay upright. In the daylight, Don could see hollows under his brother's cheekbones, and dark smudges under his eyes. The white bandage on Charlie's neck made his pale skin appear slightly gray. He still has a fever, Don reminded himself. He found himself staring. "Are you okay?"

Charlie nodded, but leaned his head wearily against the seat, and Don scooted over to sit closer, to provide support in case Charlie got tired of trying to hold himself in the corner. "Just tired," Charlie whispered.

Don nodded. "I know. We'll be at the border in an hour. We'll check you into a hospital, we'll get Dad down here; I know he can't wait to see you…" His voice trailed off as Charlie nodded and closed his eyes. '_He's still so sick_,' thought Don. He glanced through the back window; taking another look behind them. Still nothing. He would have thought that Mahir and his remaining man would be trailing them, at least.

Garcia's voice came from the front seat as he spoke loudly into the cell phone. "Sir, I'm calling in to tell you that we're heading for the border, now. We'll be there in about an hour, and we need your team there with Charlie's passport. They found us again, we had to get out of there – we're making a run for it. No pursuit so far."

There was a pause. "No sir, I don't think you should tell him either. The information you've been feeding Tompkins is getting back to them somehow. I'm glad you agree; because I was gonna have a major problem if you didn't. We don't need a damn NSA escort. When we get there, we do need the Mexican border guards to accompany us up to the front of the line, pronto." Edgerton turned in his seat, and raised an eyebrow at Don. Garcia's report was a bit more emotional than usual; it was obvious he was barely holding in his frustration, and he was walking a fine line between respect and insubordination.

Don grinned back, faintly, and as Ian turned his head forward again, Don's expression turned thoughtful. A few days earlier, he had been ready to kill the man, and in that short time they had progressed, if not to friends, at least to comrades. He still hadn't forgiven Ian for what he had done at Los Padres, but he had to admit, Edgerton seemed committed to atoning for his past mistakes.

His eyes darkened again as he glanced at the frail figure next to him in the seat. Charlie had been through so much in the last year, and any of the horrific events by themselves were more than most people would have been able to handle. He marveled once more at his brother's strength, but wondered also, with misgiving, how much was too much? How much could one person take, before they broke, or simply quit, and lost the will to continue?

Charlie had been at that point, or nearly so, after Los Padres, although he never admitted it. As they began to look forward to crossing the border, and physical safety, Don knew that the struggle to heal would just be beginning. Charlie's attempt at fighting that battle after Los Padres had almost ended in disaster; and the memory played in Don's mind, leaving a residue of apprehension.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Megan pounded on the door to Colby's hotel room, the sun warm on her back. They had driven through a good part of the night, and had arrived at McAllen at four in the morning. They were due to meet at noon, go over the border layout at lunch and meet with the border guard at 1:00 for a possible crossing the next day. Merrick's urgent call had changed all that. The rescue team and Charlie were already on their way, and they needed to meet with the border personnel as soon as possible. Fortunately, they were right there; the hotel was within walking distance of the border turnstiles, and the border office was right around the corner.

The door opened, and Colby squinted at her as the sunlight hit his eyes. He was already up and dressed, noted Megan thankfully. "What's up?"

"We've got to get over to the border office, now," she said. "Merrick just called – something's happened and they're making a run for it, they'll be here in an hour. The border guys are waiting for us. Grab David and meet me over there."

"Right." Colby turned back into the room to grab his gear, and Megan took off at a jog for the border office. A moment later, he and David were sprinting after her.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Mahir and his man sat on a side street, with a view of the highway entrance ramps. After escaping from the FBI attack, they had circled the block on foot, waiting until Garcia had gotten into the sedan, and then dashed for their SUV. Mahir had decided on a risky course of action; instead of trailing the sedan, they drove on ahead to the nearest highway ramps. It was a guess, but a good one, and he watched as the blue sedan sped past the side street, and took the ramp for Highway 20 East, toward Reynosa.

He spoke into his cell phone. "It is as we thought; they are headed for the border at Reynosa."

Paulson replied, "All right. We'll be right behind you. You can follow, but stay out of sight. We want them to think they've lost us. We'll let them get in line at the border, and take them out there." It wasn't the best of situations; the shooting would be very public, in front of the others in line. They were running out of options, however; once the FBI team made it over the border, it would become exponentially harder, if not impossible, to get to them.

The plan did have a high probability of success, however. The sedan would be trapped in line, unable to move. Mahir and his men would drive up along the edge of the road and unload. To the rest of the people there, it would look like a drug-related drive-by shooting. Someone, either onlookers or the Mexican border guard, would surely see the plates on the vehicles. When they tracked them, they would be traced back to the sedans that Mahir's men had rented, and Conway's SUV. The vehicles would be found later, abandoned, with the fingerprints of Conway's team, and the terrorists, all over them. Mahir's men would be out of the country, and Conway and his team would take the blame.

No, it was certainly not an elegant plan, mused Paulson, but it would be effective. In an hour, it would all be over.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 34

1 pequeña – "little one," _feminine _


	35. Chapter 35

**Chapter 35**

Billy Kingston was all of eighteen. He had joined the border guard as soon as he was able, full of fire and zeal, looking for action. He'd had small tastes of it here and there, but mostly he had found the job to be mind-numbingly boring; endless patrols along the thick brush that choked the banks of the Rio Grande. The river _was_ the border at Reynosa, and at that point it was deep, brown and murky, with a fast dangerous current. Still, people tried to cross it. Most of them failed – either barely escaping with their lives, back to the Mexican bank, or by dragging themselves out on the American side, only to be picked up by the border guard. Countless more didn't make it; their bodies swept toward the Gulf by the muddy water, never to be seen again.

Sometimes as Billy patrolled the bank, he would catch a glimpse of his nemeses, the coyotes, in the brush on the Mexican bank. The coyotes claimed territories on the Mexican side, and anyone wanting to cross from their territory had to pay them for the privilege. They were blood-sucking scum, and on more than one occasion, Billy was tempted to fire right across the river, and put a well-deserved bullet in their mangy skulls. Instead, though, he would stare at them grimly, and resume his patrol, fighting the boredom, the bugs and the heat.

Today looked like it would be different. They had all been called in for an emergency meeting, and were being briefed by an FBI team, led by a woman named Reeves. She was slight and attractive, and at first glance, wasn't who Billy would expect to be leading a team, until he caught a glimpse of her eyes; intelligent, with a glint of steel underneath. He had a feeling that she was tougher, a lot tougher, and stronger than she looked.

The news she delivered made his heart beat with anticipation. Something big was going down, someone important was coming across the border in a huge hurry; they would be there within the hour, and they were possibly being pursued. It was all very hush-hush; they were not being given any details, but speculation ran rampant. The rumor was that it had something to do with the recent thwarted terrorist attack, and that only added to Billy's excitement. Finally, he had a chance to be part of something big.

He watched with mounting apprehension, as border guards were selected to facilitate the crossing. He shouldn't have been surprised when the senior, more experienced agents were chosen for the important job, but when the selection process was over, and the rest of them, a handful of new recruits like him, were left out, he was bitterly disappointed. They were being reassigned to their posts on the river bank, to make sure that people didn't try to take advantage of the potential distraction and try to cross.

"Don't ever get to do _nuthin_,'" he muttered to one of his fellow recruits, as they filed glumly out of the building. "It sucks."

Megan watched as the border guards made their way out of the briefing, and turned to their leader, Captain Bob Weeks. Weeks hung up his cell phone and shook his head. "They're still trying to get the Mexican border patrol up to speed on this – they can't seem to get hold of their man in charge. This could be a big problem."

Megan frowned. "We'd better get over there, and see if the guards on duty know how to get hold of him, or his designated in-charge. They're going to be here in twenty minutes."

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Exactly nineteen minutes later, Garcia pulled up behind a mass of traffic, jockeying for position. The lines to cross the border were normally long here, and had been longer in the past week due to the elevated alert level, but this was extreme. There hadn't been a line this long since the borders were closed during 911. He glanced in the rearview mirror, and looked with concern into the back seat. Charlie had gone into another aftershock during the drive, and was now cradled in Don's arms. The episode appeared to be over, but Charlie lay limply, still gasping from the pain. Don Eppes appeared to be in nearly as much agony himself; his arms were still wrapped around his brother, even though the spasms had ceased.

Garcia had called Merrick, trying to find out what was going on at the border, and Merrick referred him to Megan Reeves. He was now dialing her number, with frustration and anxiety playing on his face. He glanced back at Don. "Megan Reeves – isn't she one of yours?"

Don felt a flash of relief go through him. "Yeah."

"She's leading the crossing facilitation – why don't you talk to her?" Garcia handed him the phone, and Don reached for it, one arm still around Charlie, and put it to his ear just as Megan picked up.

"Megan, it's Don."

"Don!" she exclaimed on the other end, a smile coming to her face. Colby and David were standing next to her and they turned toward her, listening intently. "Where are you?"

"We just pulled up in line on the other side," said Don. "It's a mess over here." He scanned the line ahead; it stretched for blocks. They were still on the city streets; they hadn't even made it to the lanes that were designated for the border. "Garcia's in line, but we need to get past this sidewalk area before we can pull into the border crossing lanes, and come up the emergency lane. We could use some Mexican border guards here."

Megan frowned slightly. "We're still trying to get the word to them. We can't locate their man in charge; someone said he's in a meeting; they're trying to find him. Merrick talked to him yesterday and let him know this was coming, but we didn't expect you so soon. The Mexican border guys still need to be briefed. We'll see if we can get hold of a couple of them, and brief them ourselves – I don't know if they'll accept our recommendations without their top man's approval, but we're going to try. We closed the border temporarily on this side and cleared the commuters away – we wanted them to do that on the Mexican side too, but obviously it didn't happen."

A worried scowl appeared on Don's face. "Hold on just a minute." He explained the situation to Garcia and Edgerton, who frowned. They kept their heads turned toward him as he put the phone back to his ear, and he realized they were not looking at him, but out the rear window. Charlie too, was now awake and listening, his pale face nearly expressionless, except for his eyes, which were dark with concern.

Garcia spoke. "Look, tell her we're coming anyway. I'm going to take the sidewalk until we can get up to the lane. I don't want to be stuck here."

Don nodded. "Megan, we're coming anyway. Garcia's going to go up the sidewalk on the right side, until he can get to the emergency lane. Try to get that word to a couple of them, and have them drop back to escort us."

"Right," Megan said. "We'll see you in a few minutes." She clicked the phone shut and frowned, her attention captured by the scene in front of her. The American border guards were lined up, complete with flak jackets and weapons, and some of them were arguing with their Mexican counterparts, who were lining up angrily on the other side. Two jeeps pulled up behind them with Mexican militia in camouflage and automatic weapons, and Megan looked at Colby and David with concern. "This is starting to look ugly," she said, glancing around. "Where's Weeks?"

Don clicked the phone shut, and leaned forward; watching as Garcia carefully urged the car over the curb next to them, with a short blast on his horn. He moved slowly, trying to give the pedestrians time to get out of the way. Horns blared in return as angry onlookers in line saw them maneuver. Don glanced at them; then took a look out of the window at the side mirror, and his heart gave a painful leap.

"Garcia," he said urgently, "we've got an SUV pulling out of line behind us."

Garcia looked in the rearview mirror, and saw the vehicle about a block back, trying to navigate the sidewalk. A dark sedan pulled out behind it, and farther back, another. "Shit," he breathed. He laid on the horn, scattering the pedestrians in front of him, and inched forward. "Move, people!"

He was almost to the corner of a side street, as a Mexican border patrol car pulled up, and then pulled onto the sidewalk on the other side, lights flashing. "Thank God," said Garcia, "there's our escort. We could use another one behind us." He pulled forward, then frowned as the two border guards got out of the car, and advanced toward them. "We don't have time to chat, boys, let's go." He opened the door and stepped halfway out of the vehicle, waving them back with a torrent of Spanish.

One of the border guards retorted angrily, and shook his head. "What in the hell's going on?" muttered Don.

Edgerton was listening intently, frowning. "He's not here to escort us – he's telling us to get back in line." They both glanced out the back of the window with mounting apprehension. The SUV was impeded by the crowded sidewalk, but it had advanced to three quarters of a block away.

Garcia was now screaming at the border guard, flashing his badge, and the man reached for his weapon. Realizing the futility of it, Garcia raised his hands as if in surrender, and got back into the drivers seat, slamming the door. "Idiots," he hissed, and looked back out the back window, and then through the windshield. The patrol vehicle across the street completely blocked their way forward down the sidewalk; there was only one way to go – down the side street.

Garcia glanced again out the back, and saw figures begin to alight from the SUV and the sedans, and walk toward them though the crowd. "That's our cue, guys, we've gotta go." He pulled on the wheel sharply and bumped down over the curb into the side street, accelerating as he hit the street surface. The border guards yelled angrily, but their attention was now captured by the vehicles down the street, which began to back up in order to get back to the nearest side road, a block down. The men ran back toward them as they moved and clambered inside, and the vehicles maneuvered and turned down the side road.

Garcia glanced anxiously to his left as he drove, looking for a road that would take them in closer to the front of the line, but the traffic jam had spilled down the side streets; they were in a hopeless gridlock. They needed to go left, but had no choice other than to go straight, which was taking them to the east side of town; their way left was blocked by traffic, and their pursuers were to their right, keeping pace, still one block away. "Get Reeves on the phone, tell her what's happening. I'm going to have to try to ditch these guys before we try again."

Don dialed, and held the phone to his ear as Garcia floored the gas pedal, his horn blaring. The car hit a rise in the road and went slightly airborne, coming down with a thump, and Charlie slid. Don tightened his grip, pulling Charlie against him, as Megan came on the line. "Megan, we've got a problem. The Mexican guard wouldn't let us through and we've got pursuers now. We're heading east through town, trying to shake them. Try to get us some backup, and hurry." He got her curt affirmative, and hung up, reaching around with his other arm to steady Charlie.

Charlie winced as the car hit another bump; each jolt sent a shock wave of pain through his body. Worse than the pain, however; was the fear. He knew they were in a dire situation, and he knew that this team was here on his account. Because of him, Don was facing danger, and possible death. The thought consumed him; his mind, overloaded with pain and fatigue, could think of nothing else. They were trapped, and he was going to have to watch his brother die, trying to save his life. He closed his eyes, and prayed as the car zoomed through the streets.

They had reached the outskirts of the city, and the road, now in more open territory, took a diagonal route left, toward the north. Garcia swerved at the turn and floored it. It was obvious now that they were in fact trapped; the pursuers to their right were pushing them north, toward the river. Garcia looked frantically for another road to the east, but there were none, and they were fast approaching the bushy growth that lined the banks of the Rio Grande. As they reached the end of the road, it turned sharply back toward town, following the bank, and Garcia swung around, intending to head that way, but as he did they could see a sedan approaching them, and he tromped hard on the brake. One of their pursuers had headed north behind them and had come up that way; they were now cut off from the front and from behind.

Don began to pull Charlie down into the foot-well, preparing for a gun battle, but Garcia jerked open his door, yelling, "Out of the car! We'll take cover in the brush!"

He and Ian leapt from the car, and opening Charlie's door, grabbed him roughly, hastily by the arms and charged down the embankment, dragging him between them. Garcia covered the rear, sending a few shots toward the approaching vehicles. They plunged into the brush, and Garcia ran past them to take the lead, urging them along. There was a narrow path through the growth, and it forked in more than one place. Garcia kept taking the forks left, toward the river. He stopped suddenly, and as Don and Ian came awkwardly to a halt behind him, Charlie slumped between them, they could see the river, brown and roiling, to their left.

There was a man facing Garcia, his expression angry and threatening, and Gerardo pointed the gun at him. "FBI. Vamos!" The man shot him a glance filled with fear and hate, and melted into the underbrush. "Damn coyotes," swore Garcia, panting, as they moved behind some tree trunks for cover.

Don and Ian carefully sat Charlie down against one of the trunks; his face was drawn in pain, his eyes shut, gasping for breath. Garcia looked at Don, his face grim. "This is it. We can't stay ahead of them. There's only one way out of here. I'm assuming you can swim." The river spun by them, brown and murky.

Don stared at him incredulously. "You've got to be kidding. Charlie can't make it across that."

"He's not going by himself, you're gonna take him," said Garcia steadily. "They're going to surround us in minutes, and you know we can't hold them all off. It's your only chance."

Charlie's eyes were open now, and he listened intently. He could see the swift current, pouring past, and he knew that his chances of making it across were slim, even with help. He was so tired, tired of the pain, tired of the struggle. He had no strength, and the will just wasn't there any longer. Don could make it, though, he thought. Don could still get out alive. "I think we should do it," he said, trying to put force into his weak voice.

Don looked at him in disbelief. "Charlie, there's no way –"

Garcia grabbed a rope from a pile lying on the bank, and cut him off. "The coyotes use those to tie the children to their parents. Tie Charlie to you, and take him across. Ian and I will cover; then we'll follow." There was sound of footsteps crashing through the undergrowth, then shots. Bullets began to streak by.

Ian and Garcia took positions behind the trees, and returned the fire. "You gotta move, Eppes," Garcia shouted. "Go!"

Don grabbed the rope and cinched it around his waist, and Charlie watched with trepidation. If he drowned, he would sink; Don would be tied to an anchor. "Make sure you can untie it," he said quietly, and Don stopped and shot him a stunned look, but said nothing.

He tied the rope around Charlie's waist with a strong knot; then grabbed Charlie's arms, speaking firmly. "Charlie, if we're going to do this, we're doing it together. There's no way I'm letting you go, you got that? We're going to make it across. Do you understand?" Charlie's eyes fell, but he nodded.

A bullet whizzed by perilously close to their heads, and Don ducked instinctively, protectively, over Charlie, and then stood and came around behind him, lifting him under the shoulders. "When we go in, lay back against me," he said in Charlie's ear. "I'll put one arm around you, across your chest; hang on to it as hard as you can." He didn't wait for a response, and began dragging Charlie into the water.

He traded a last look with Garcia and Edgerton, who then turned their attention back to the gun fight, blazing with renewed energy, trying to keep their attackers from shooting at Don and Charlie, who were leaving the cover of the brush. For a few moments, the Eppes brothers would be in open water in plain sight. Don felt the strength of the current even at knee level; as he backed his way in carefully, it tore at his lower legs, making each step a challenge.

Bullets hissed into the water around him, and he knew he had to make the plunge. He murmured into his brother's curls, "Hang on, Buddy," and took a big step backwards, dropping into the swirling water.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 35


	36. Chapter 36

**Chapter 36 **

Billy Kingston heard shots, and ran back along the trail, peering out across the river. There were four men on the other bank, and they appeared to be embroiled in a gun battle with several others. He could see the figures moving around in the brush further up the bank, maneuvering to get closer, to surround the group on the bank. He watched as one of the men stood and lifted a smaller man under the arms, who appeared to be wounded or sick. They were tied together at the waist, and he swore softly in amazement as they backed into the water. As weak as the smaller man appeared; he didn't give them much of a chance of making it across.

He flipped out his cell phone and called it in, his hands shaking with excitement. "This is Kingston - I've got big action down here. There's a gun battle on the Mexico side – at least ten people involved – looks like four men trying to fight off a larger group. Two men are going into the water now - one of them is in trouble – wounded maybe. We need some reinforcements here, and an ambulance, quick."

He heard his group leader yelling on the other end for Weeks, and Reeves – that was the FBI woman, he realized, and his eyes lit with excitement. This must have to do with the hush-hush crossing. Finally, he was going to be part of something big. His group leader barked confirmation of his requests in his ear, and he hung up the phone, starting to trot down the bank, keeping the swimmers in sight.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

The force of the water was far more than Don had bargained for. It surged and rolled, making it hard to keep his head up; and his grip on Charlie. He leaned backward and tried to backstroke with his good arm, kicking with his legs, his injured arm wrapped tightly around Charlie. Charlie clung to it, but his grip was weak, and Don knew that his brother couldn't have held on to it by himself.

In spite of the force of the water, their downstream movement seemed too slow for comfort; the river seemed to want to drag them under, rather than send them forward, and the bullets hissed around them. In their current position, Charlie lay on top and was more exposed, and Don kicked frantically, trying to get them out of range, downstream, to the other side, anywhere but there.

They had made it to the center of the river, and down a bit, when the bullet hit. Somehow, it had gone by Charlie, and as it tore into Don's right thigh, he let out an involuntary harsh yell of pain. Agony seized him for a split second, and when it passed he realized that Charlie had broken free. The current tore them apart, and he felt the rope tighten and pull on his waist.

His leg was numb, and felt like a lead weight; the torn muscles in his upper thigh shocked into lifelessness. He kicked frantically with his other leg, and craned his neck to look for Charlie. He turned just in time to see his brother, flailing weakly, submerge; and the sight of the pale face, the dark terrified eyes going into the water, gave him strength. He grabbed the rope stretched taut between them, and pulled upward as hard as he could.

In a quieter moment, Charlie could have explained the physics of the move to him, how the force exerted upward on the rope would translate into an equal and opposite reaction that would pull Don down. Just before he went under, he saw Charlie roll to the surface, gasping and coughing. He took a deep breath as he submerged, and fought back to the top, trying to stroke toward Charlie as he came up.

Edgerton glanced at the river from his position behind the tree, and froze. "They're in trouble," he said urgently to Garcia, and Gerardo turned.

He could see the two dark heads, separated by only two to three feet, bobbing in the water, and he shot a look at Ian. "They need help. You've gotta get out there."

Ian stared back at him. "There's no way you can hold them off on your own." Bullets splashed in the water, and zinged past them through the brush.

"Try me," Gerardo snapped back, with a feral smile. "Go, Edgerton, and that's an order. As soon as you all are out of sight, I'll be right behind you." He turned and popped off a couple of quick shots.

Ian ducked and darted over to the tree that Garcia was behind, and laid down his service weapon and his rifle. "There's some back up. Good luck." He held Garcia's eyes for a split second, and turned and ran into the water. As he reached knee depth he dove, and began a fast crawl toward the dark head he saw disappearing around the bend.

He soon realized that at least one of their attackers had traveled through the brush along the bank. Long after he passed the point where he thought the bullets would stop, they were still coming. Not as many, but as he closed the distance between himself and the Eppes, he could see the splashes in the water around them. Their attackers had sent a few shooters downstream.

Don pulled on the rope again, trying this time to pull Charlie closer to him, but the force of the current was too much to overcome. The rope was taut, stretched painfully tight, and he dragged on it with all his strength. He was winded, gasping, and he knew that Charlie had to be nearly drowned. He gave another heave, preparing to submerge, and froze in shock. The rope had snapped, severed by a bullet.

He lifted his hand and shot a quick, horrified glance at the unattached end, then lunged desperately for Charlie, who was already floating out of his reach. The currents of the river swirled, ever-changing, some of them slower moving, some fast. Charlie had been caught by a fast moving section of river, faster than the relative eddy that Don was in, and Don kicked desperately with his good leg, and stroked with his arms, trying to follow his brother into the quicker current. The blood loss was beginning to take its toll, however, and his efforts weren't even enough to keep his own head above water. As he hit the stronger current, it pulled him under.

A hand suddenly grabbed the shoulder of his shirt, and he came back up sputtering, as a strong arm snaked around his chest, holding him much like he had held Charlie. He struggled, and heard Ian's voice in his ear. "Take it easy, you're almost to the other side."

"Goddamn it, Ian," gasped Don, "get Charlie!" He tried to pull away, but he was weakening, and Edgerton's grip was like iron.

"Quit struggling," barked Ian. "I'll get him, but I can't if you keep this up." His feet found footing, and with it came more leverage. He heaved Don out of the water, dragging him half onto the bank, casting a concerned eye at Don's bleeding thigh. He heard crashing in the brush behind him and whirled, to see a young border guard behind them. "Take care of him!" Ian barked, as Billy Kingston grabbed Don under the arms and pulled him up onto the bank. A bullet hit the tree next to them with a sharp whack. "I'm going back in!"

Don gasped, spent, agony on his face, as Ian plunged back into the river. Far down, too far, Don could see a flash of yellow in the muddy water, then nothing. "Charlie," he whispered, and stared in despair at the murky river, his brother hidden beneath its surface.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

The SUV bounced down the dirt track along the river bank, and David grabbed onto the seat back in front of him to steady himself as he listened to Megan, who was half-shouting over the noise of the vehicle, as Colby manipulated the wheel. They were following a border guard vehicle along the growth that lined the river. There were two more vehicles behind them.

"The guard called it in," she was saying. "He said there were four men trying to fight off a larger group; then two of them went into the water, trying to swim for it. He said one of them looked like he was wounded."

Colby glanced sideways. "Don and Charlie, maybe?"

Megan nodded. "Makes sense -," she broke off as a figure ran out onto the road in front of the border vehicle waving his arms. He turned and ran back to the side of the road, and knelt next a prone figure, and Colby jammed on the brakes, and they leapt from the truck.

They ran forward to the figure, and Megan gasped with relief as the man raised his head, and she saw who it was. "Don!" she exclaimed, as they dropped their knees beside him. His thigh was drenched in blood, and the border guard was pushing a rag on it, trying to apply pressure. Don's face was twisted in pain.

"What happened?" she asked, as David turned and quietly told the guards behind him to call for an ambulance. Other guards were plowing through the brush, toward the river and the sound of gunfire.

Don looked at her, agony in his eyes. "They trapped us by the river. I tried to go across with Charlie - we were tied together but the rope broke. Ian went after him – he's still in the river." The last words were uttered with complete despair.

Megan felt her heart drop. To lose Charlie after all of this… She tried to get a grip on her whirling thoughts, and composed herself, speaking to Don reassuringly. "Ian will get him, Don. Just relax. If anyone can do it, he can."

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Garcia heard the shift in the sound of the gunfire, and swore to himself. Their attackers were taking advantage of the dense brush, moving past him, down the river. If he was going to keep them preoccupied, he needed to move with them.

He gathered the extra weapons and began to draw back, moving from tree to tree along the bank, downstream. He encountered little resistance, and realized that the men that had been assigned to keep him pinned down must have missed his movements – shots were still being fired into the location that he had just been in.

He worked his way down far enough to see Edgerton pulling Don Eppes out of the water before he started to fire. One of the terrorists was standing, aiming at them, unaware of Garcia, and he lifted Edgerton's rifle and took the man out with a single neat shot. The man fell, and Garcia felt a moment of satisfaction, but he knew he had given his position away. He dodged behind a tree as bullets cascaded around him, sticking his arm out occasionally to fire.

He heard a sudden crashing through the brush; it seemed to come from all directions, and he realized with a shock that they were rushing him. He glanced behind him, wondering if he should try the river, and saw Edgerton entering the water again. If he didn't stall for time, Ian would be a helpless target. He would be himself, if he took to the water now. He might as well take some of them with him.

He felt a brief flash of sadness for his family as he reached for the extra pistol Ian had given him, and it swirled into the mix of other emotions that rose in him, as he stepped from the tree, and with a savage cry, began firing with both hands, non-stop, at his approaching attackers. He kept screaming as he fired, as the bullets began to hit him, tearing his flesh, his voice rising and joining with all of the other warriors that had gone before him.

He staggered, and dropped to his knees, still shooting, as the wounds took their toll; and his will was no longer enough to keep him standing. The last thing he felt as he fell was a rush of overwhelming love for his country, and a fierce pride to know that he had died for her. He lay there, with a faint smile on his face, as the fire left his eyes, and they stared sightlessly at the treetops above him.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Charlie heard Don's cry of pain, and felt his brother's arm slacken. He tried desperately to hold on to his brother's suddenly limp arm, but the current ripped them apart. As the rope around his waist snapped taut, he gasped. He was facing Don, and fear surged through him as he saw the pain in his brother's face. He moved his arms, trying to keep himself afloat, and saw with relief that Don was starting to move again, to stroke against the current. Charlie's efforts were too feeble to keep him up for long, and a swirl caught him, and pulled him under.

He felt the rope pull up against him, and suddenly his head was back in the sunlight, and he gasped and coughed, sucking in another lungful of air, his heart pounding painfully with fear as he saw Don submerge again.

He flailed desperately against the water, as Don's head appeared again, and he felt a strong tension on the rope as Don tried to pull him closer. Suddenly, that tension was gone, the rope had snapped and he was floating freely, moving rapidly away from his brother, facing upstream, and he realized that Edgerton was in the water with them. He could see Ian just inches away, closing in, and for a moment, he was terrified that Edgerton would come after him, and leave Don to drown.

His heart contracted with a painful spasm as he saw Ian grasp his struggling brother just as Don went under; a feeling of devout thankfulness and sadness at once. He rolled helplessly in the current and it pulled him down, then shot him to the surface again, chest heaving, and he caught a glimpse of Ian dragging Don onto the bank, the leg of his jeans dark with blood. Tears came to his eyes as he took one last look at his brother, but the sadness was tempered with relief; Don would be safe.

He was plunged under again, and came up choking to the sound of gunfire on the bank, as he gasped again for air. He had nearly drowned once before, after Los Padres, but then he had been under the influence of drugs; he had slipped peacefully into the water. He could still remember the feeling of calm, the euphoria. This was different; he was fully awake and conscious, terrified.

He continued on in a watery limbo; spinning out of control in the current, which alternately took him under, and pushed him up. Each time he gasped for breath, not knowing if it would be his last. He realized that his inability to struggle against the current was probably helping him; as long as he kept air in his lungs he would float, like a piece of wood, at or at least near the surface. Eventually, however, the river would win, he knew; he would be pulled down for just a moment longer than he could hold his breath; his lungs would fill with water, and it would be over. Drowning was relatively painless, he told himself. A moment of heart-stopping terror, the struggle for oxygen; then fading consciousness.

At least Don was safe, he thought, as his will diminished. Maybe it was best to let this end – there would be peace and freedom from pain – no more fear, no more agony. Suddenly, with certain finality, he knew it was time - time to let it all go. Oddly enough, as soon as he made the decision, the memory of his near drowning at Santa Barbara took hold, provoking a profound sense of deja-vu. He felt the same sense of calm, of euphoria – the feeling that some unbearable nameless burden had been lifted. He had felt that in the waves at Santa Barbara, and again on the gurney at the hospital in Hermosillo, when, in the throes of agony from his third injection, he had finally given in, knowing they would kill him. He embraced the peace; and taking one last deep breath, closed his eyes, and let the river take him.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 36


	37. Chapter 37

**Chapter 37**

Ian stroked his way madly down the river; his head scanning the water. The gunfire on the bank suddenly exploded, and he glanced sideways to see Garcia step from behind a tree, firing with both barrels. He could hear the warlike scream, and he knew that Gerardo was making a heroic last stand. He felt a surge of pain at the sight, of sadness, awe and respect together; then turned his face back to the river swirling in front of him, his face impassive. Many thought that he didn't have emotions; it was true that he tried to repress them, but he did have them. He simply never showed them – to anyone.

Stray bullets were still splashing around him, and he grimaced as the water took him over a shallow area, with barely submerged rocks. In the shallower water he felt even more exposed, and as the current dragged him through the boulders, some of them struck him with bruising impacts. He twisted in the water, trying to avoid them. One in particular hit him in the side just above the hipbone with enough force that it took his breath away, and he sighed with relief as he made it past them into deeper water, trying to breathe through the pain.

There was still no sign of Charlie, and he felt anxiety begin to rise as he searched, his eyes casting about as he swam, looking for a glimpse of yellow. He swirled around a bend, away from the last of the bullets, and there he was. About twelve feet from the U.S. side, a huge boulder protruded from the water. At some point, a dead tree had been pinned against it, and the branches projected out into the current toward the middle of the river. Like the tree, Charlie had been swept against the rock. The force of the current had pushed his upper body part way onto the boulder, and his legs were tangled in the tree branches next to it.

He lay limply, and even from a distance, Ian could see blood on his face. He stroked furiously toward him, and braced himself as the current pushed him into the boulder. He gasped with fatigue for a moment, he was winded, and his feet scrabbled underneath him, searching for bottom. Charlie still lay partially in the water; the current was pulling at him, and he was slipping downward, off the rock. Ian planted his feet on the rocky bottom; one arm still braced against the boulder, and worked his other arm under Charlie's shoulder, then pushed off toward the U.S. side.

The water was waist deep in front of the boulder, but the river dropped off between it and the bank, and it took all that Ian had to pull them toward the side. Finally, he reached a section shallow enough for him to stand, and dragged Charlie onto land. He immediately dropped to his knees, felt for a pulse and found one, to his great relief – it was weak, but it was there.

He put an ear to Charlie's chest and felt a gentle rise and fall, but he could also hear a faint gurgling with each labored breath. Charlie had obviously taken in a little water, but not enough to fill his lungs. Ian sat back and quickly scanned him, searching for the source of the blood. It was streaming from a split scalp and an ugly swelling on the side of his head, up and behind his ear, probably from contact with the boulder. He was alive, however, against all odds.

Ian sat back on his heels, suddenly overcome with a surge of emotion that was more intense than any he had felt, except for the guilt he experienced after Los Padres. The feeling was something akin to what a parent might have for a child; a fierce protectiveness. It was unexpected, and sobering.

He changed positions to a squat and pulled Charlie over his shoulder, staggering as he stood with him, and wincing at the pain in his side. Charlie felt inexplicably heavy, and Ian realized how tired he was – even wet, Charlie should not have felt that much heavier than when Ian had carried him down the apartment stairs, just two hours ago. Now he was a dead weight, and Ian gasped for breath, his legs wobbling underneath him, as he headed for the path along the riverbank. He ignored the fatigue and the pain, his mind focused doggedly on one thing - to get Charlie Eppes to safety.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Megan watched Don anxiously as the EMT's examined him. The wound in his thigh was still bleeding heavily whenever pressure was removed, and Don appeared ashen, and a little breathless. The side of his face and his torso were covered with fresh, livid bruises, which contrasted sharply with the paleness of his skin. Border guards were standing around the perimeter, keeping watch, although the gunfire had ceased on the other side of the river. A second ambulance came rolling up slowly, bouncing and lurching from the uneven dirt track.

Weeks had just called her, and told her that they finally had the go-ahead to send their men over the border, and he was ordering teams to the river bank on the Mexican side. She informed him in turn that they had one of the team, and were working on retrieving the others. Some of the guards at her location had gone downriver to look for Ian Edgerton, and to hopefully, help him find Charlie.

There was a shout, and some of those guards came trotting up the road. Megan, David and Colby looked up just as figure appeared behind them around the bend; it was Ian, and he was carrying Charlie over his shoulder. A few of the guards ran toward the second ambulance to help the EMT's and another jogged up to Megan as she ran forward to meet Ian. "He wouldn't let us help him," the guard panted, as Ian pushed past him toward Don, who struggled up on his elbows despite the EMTs' admonitions.

Don's face went even paler at the sight of Charlie's limp form over Ian's shoulder, dripping blood. He gasped something – it might have been Charlie's name – as an unreasonable terror took hold of him, consuming all other thoughts. He could see the expression of pain on Ian's face, and he pushed harder against the EMT's hands. He had never seen Ian express emotion, show pain – there was only one explanation for it - Charlie was gone. "No," he moaned, as a strange roaring began in his ears. "Charlie…"

He struggled for a moment, but the roaring increased, and he slumped, his eyes rolling back in their sockets. One of the EMT's barely caught him in time; keeping his head from striking the ground, as he passed out. "We've got to get him out of here," he said, as he rose to help his partner ease Charlie from Ian's shoulder.

They laid Charlie gently on the ground next to Don, and Colby, Megan and David stared silently at him for a moment, taken aback by the frail figure, his face covered in blood. He doesn't even look like Charlie; David thought sadly as he took in the thin, drenched form. Megan tried to swallow the grief rising in her, and looked at Edgerton, who was staring at Charlie blankly. She laid a hand on his arm, as the EMT checked the inert figure for a pulse. "You did the best you could, Ian," she said softly, and he turned toward her, his expression unreadable.

"He's alive!" exclaimed the technician, and words jolted them out of their sad reverie.

"What!" exclaimed David, as Colby motioned for the second set of EMT's, who were coming forward with another gurney, to hurry.

"My God, Ian, you did it!" exclaimed Megan, grabbing his arm with an incredulous grin. To her shock, he staggered backwards, his eyes glazing, and tottering, fell hard on his knees, swayed, then slumped sideways, unconscious. An EMT scrambled over to him and hurriedly checked his pulse, then pulled on his blood-stained shirt. As he lifted it, Megan gasped at the sight of the bullet hole in his side, streaming blood. "He's hit!" yelled the EMT. "We've got another one – get another gurney!"

"Let's move!" yelled the other technician, who was busy checking Charlie's pulse. "These two are both shocky, and I think I've got an arrhythmia here!"

Megan caught her breath, sobering as the scene suddenly hit her, and she stared, momentarily stunned, at the three lifeless bodies in front of her, as the EMT's bustled and swirled around her.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Paulson and Mahir surveyed the damage as their last man, Avilar, came up the riverbank. Mahir was down to two men, Abdullah and Abboud, and Paulson had only Avilar and Kirtland remaining – the rest were dead, victims of the bloody battle.

Paulson looked at Avilar hopefully as he approached, but he shook his head and shrugged. "I got downstream just in time to see an agent with a body over his shoulder, disappearing into the brush. The body looked like the professor – he appeared either unconscious or dead. I would bet on dead – it was doubtful that he survived the river by himself."

Paulson looked at Mahir. "We need to get out of here, and cut our losses. I'm sure either U.S. or Mexican authorities will be here soon." He glanced at Mahir's two remaining men, and lowered his voice. "It will look better for our story if one of your men were to die from a bullet from one of my team's guns."

Mahir's gaze traveled to the two remaining men, without expression. Abdullah, the young man who had handled the professor's computer at the warehouse, was too valuable. His intelligence and computer skills were a much-needed asset. "Take Abboud, then," he murmured.

Paulson nodded and pulled his own weapon, advancing to a point slightly left of the two men, closing the gap between them. He appeared to be focused on something else, and they watched him curiously. Suddenly, Paulson whirled and without warning, put a bullet into Abboud's chest. The man gasped with surprise and shock, and then, clawing at his chest, toppled over with a sickening thud.

Abdullah reached automatically for his weapon but Mahir raised a hand. "Stop," he commanded. "You are not chosen today. Abboud has made a sacrifice for Allah." Abdullah stared at him, and then down at Abboud, with a slightly green face, then fell in behind the others as they moved out, putting away his weapon.

Paulson spoke tersely to Mahir as they hiked the trail back to the vehicles. "You should take Conway's SUV and one of the sedans to the edge of town. Ditch the SUV, we will allow them to find it – it will look like Conway left it there. Take the sedan, drive back to Monterrey, and find yourself a new vehicle, then wait for my instructions. If we are sure that Eppes is dead, you can proceed to leave the country. If not, we will discuss what must come next."

"What will you do?" asked Mahir.

"Kirtland, Avilar, and I will wait here for the authorities," replied Paulson. "Here is the story: we followed Conway and fought hard in the gun battle, but we were outnumbered by your group and Conway's. We managed to help defend the FBI team, but could not prevent your escape. Sadly, some of my men were killed by friendly fire from the FBI."

Mahir nodded. "If Eppes is still alive, he will be much harder to get to, now."

Paulson nodded grimly. "Let's just hope he's dead." They climbed the embankment back to the vehicles, and Mahir and Abdullah climbed into the sedan and the SUV, and turned out onto the road, headed back toward town the way they had come, away from the riverbank.

Moments later, the first border patrol units appeared on the portion of the road that ran along the riverbank, and Paulson watched as Kirtland stepped forward to wave them down. Paulson dropped the impassive, cold, expression and assumed a more appropriate one – a look of chagrin, defeat. He was a conscientious public servant, who had just lost some good men. He began to pace a bit, with just the right touch of agitation. It was show time.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Alan sat on the edge of the hotel bed in McAllen, flipping through the channels abstractedly, impatiently. He had expected somehow that upon arrival, he would find out something, anything, about was going on, but he was still in the dark. The only difference was the location of his ignorance, instead of being clueless in Pasadena; he was now clueless in McAllen.

Megan had called him that morning upon learning that he was there, and told him that she and the team would be tied up for most of the day in meetings with the border guard. However, she promised that she, Colby and David would talk to him that evening, and let him know what the plans were for the following day. It was now about 1:30 in the afternoon, and Alan was contemplating trying to find some lunch, when a knock came at the door.

He opened it to find Megan, who looked sweaty, disheveled and tired. "Megan," he said in surprise, pulling the door aside to let her in. "I thought you were in meetings all day."

She didn't move. "I came to get you," she said. "They're here – they're being taken to a hospital - McAllen Medical Center."

Alan stared at her, frozen, not sure if he'd heard right. "They came over the border? Today? But -,"

She cut him off, gently. "There was a change in plans. I'll tell you on the way, we should get going."

Alan grabbed the room key and darted toward the door, closing it behind him. His stomach clutched in apprehension. '_Why do we need to hurry?' _he thought, and put his anxiety into words. "What's wrong? Why the hospital?"

She waited until they were in the car to reply, and began speaking as she drove. "I didn't know a lot of this story myself until this morning. Merrick put together a team to look for Charlie, as you know. Don was on it, along with Ian Edgerton and an agent named Gerardo Garcia. They found Charlie in a hospital in Hermosillo – no one knows how he got there, or how he got away from the terrorists."

She glanced at Alan sideways, gauging his reaction as she continued. "Apparently however, there were still people trying to kill Charlie; we're not sure why – maybe they think he can identify them. They had found him in Hermosillo, too, and Garcia's team had to take him out of there. They've spent the last few days trying to cross the border, but they were being pursued. They had to change plans several times, and this morning was one of them. I guess they had holed up in Monterrey to get Charlie some medical attention, and were found. They decided they needed to make a run for it. It didn't go well – we weren't prepared yet, and couldn't find the man in charge of the Mexican border agents until the crossing was already underway."

Alan was pale, trying to control his agitation. He interjected, "But they got across, anyway. You said they were here."

"Yeah," said Megan with a compassionate glance. "It was rough though, Alan. They got trapped on the Mexican side, near the river. Don and Charlie tried to swim for it, but they ran into trouble. Ian went in after them. Garcia stayed on the bank to hold off their attackers – I just got word from Weeks that he was killed. Don, Charlie and Ian all made it across, but they were all injured – that's why the hospital."

Alan stared at her. "How bad?"

She glanced at him. "Don looked pretty banged up, and was shot in the leg – his thigh."

"Shot!" exclaimed Alan, his heart lurching in panic.

She nodded. "They were shooting at them in the water as they tried to cross. Don got one in the thigh, and Ian was shot in the abdomen."

Alan sat speechless, as the picture that she described began to sink in – his sons swimming for their lives in a river, while being shot at… He was gripping the armrest on the door so tightly his hand hurt, and he released it, flexing his fingers absently, staring out of the window, his brain incapacitated by horror. He took a deep breath, and tried to impose reason on his racing mind. "Those sound like manageable injuries, not life-threatening then, except for possibly Agent Edgerton's?"

Megan opened her mouth to tell him that there was more, that Don had been taken from the scene unconscious; that Charlie had a head injury and…she realized that she couldn't even begin to know what was wrong with Charlie. Instead, she looked out the windshield. "We hope so," she said quietly, as she pulled into the hospital parking lot. They would find out, soon enough.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 37


	38. Chapter 38

**Chapter 38**

Alan paced restlessly in the hallway of McAllen Medical Center's emergency department. Megan had stepped outside with her cell phone, but Colby and David stood guard in the hall. In spite of Alan's rising anxiety, he appreciated the sight of familiar faces, their solid, reassuring presence. His sons and Ian Edgerton were ensconced in three adjacent rooms in front of him. He hadn't been allowed in yet, and to know that his sons were so close, and he couldn't see them, was maddening.

Finally, one of the doors opened, and a doctor stepped out, stripping off his gloves. His eyes fell on Alan. "Mr. Eppes? Father of Don Eppes?"

"Yes," said Alan eagerly, rerouting his pacing to stand in front of him.

"Your son is stable, but he needs surgery. He's awake, now - I thought you might want to see him for a moment before we take him up. You'll have to keep it brief; he's lost a fair amount of blood. We've started a transfusion, but we need to get the leg repaired." Alan nodded, and the doctor turned and held the door open.

Alan took a deep breath as he entered, and his gut twisted. Don looked worse than he had ever seen him. He had lost weight, and it was apparent in his face, which was bruised and swollen on one side. There were ugly contusions on his chest to match, and a sheet covered his lower body, which hid the leg wound that Alan knew was there. He was wearing an oxygen mask, and his eyes were closed. Most disturbing to Alan however, were the tears streaming down the sides of his son's face.

"Donnie," he said softly, stepping forward. Hospital personnel bustled around, moving trays, getting the gurney ready to move. Don's eyes opened, and Alan could see grief and agony in them. He put a comforting hand on his son's arm. "It's okay; now, they're going to take care of you."

Don murmured something under the mask, and Alan bent his head forward. "What, son?"

"I'm sorry," came the hoarse voice, cracking with a repressed sob.

Alan shook his head, confusion mixing with tears of his own, brought to his eyes by Don's obvious distress. "Why are you sorry? You brought him back, just like you promised."

That brought a look of pure pain, and fresh tears, as Don shut his eyes tightly and shook his head. Alan was beginning feel real alarm. How bad was Charlie, anyway, that Don was acting this way? He spoke, trying to reassure himself as much as Don. "They're working on Charlie right now, Donnie – he's going to be fine. You just concentrate on yourself." He stared as Don's eyes flew open, looking at him with a bewildered expression.

"We need to take him now, sir," said one of the nurses softly, and Alan nodded, preparing to step back, but he was stopped by Don's fierce grip on his arm.

Don had fixed him with a piercing stare. "He's alive?" The words were muffled, but Alan thought that was what he heard.

He gaped back. "Yes, they have him right next door." His heart plunged as he watched Don lean his head back and close his eyes, with yet more tears, now generated by relief, streaming down his face. "You thought -," began Alan, stunned to realize that Don had thought his brother was dead.

He looked around at the hospital personnel, angrily. "What's the matter with you people? Don't you know what's going on in your own ER? How could you let him think that?" They stared back at him, disconcerted by the outburst, but he didn't care. He was beyond caring what other people thought, when it came to his sons. He stepped forward and squeezed Don's arm. "It's okay, son. You just relax. I'll be here when you get out, and so will Charlie."

Don nodded, relief still in his face, and Alan watched as they wheeled him away, with a sick feeling in his stomach. To see his oldest in such pain; and Charlie…He felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to see his youngest son – he had to know how bad it really was. He stood still for a minute as the doors swung shut, then, galvanized by fear and the protective instinct that came with it, strode through the doors. He didn't stop on the other side; instead he turned, and marched straight through the doors into the next room, where he had been told Charlie was.

He was dimly aware of voices admonishing him that he couldn't come in, but they fell on deaf ears. All he could see was the figure on the gurney, nude except for the sheet over his hips. He had made a mistake, he was in the wrong room, he thought, dazedly. That skeletal figure, covered with bruises and burn marks, could not possibly be his son. It looked like something from a horror movie. He stepped backwards, still staring, and felt someone take his arm. That someone was Colby, but Alan wasn't even aware of him. He backed out through the doors, into the hallway, and into a chair on the other side of it, and as the phantom hand released his arm, he put his head in his hands with a moan.

Megan walked up as Colby gently guided Alan into the chair, and her face flashed with alarm. She looked from Colby to David; and back again. "What's going on?"

Colby shook his head, and spoke under his breath. "He walked into Charlie's exam room while they were working on him – I think he got a little rattled. They just took Ian up to surgery, and Don was right behind him. What did Merrick have to say?"

Megan glanced around her, then back at them, her voice quiet. "Merrick wants to get the word out that Charlie didn't make it – the story is that he was DOA, cause of death, drowning. I have to talk to his doctors, and we need to set him up in a secure room. Merrick's going to feed that story to everyone, including the NSA, until Charlie has a chance to recover, and tell us what happened. Merrick thinks that once everyone knows that Charlie had a chance to talk, that he'll be safe – there will be no reason for them to try to get rid of him. Either he'll tell us who they are, and they'll be taken in, or if he doesn't know anything, his attackers will know that too, because they won't be apprehended. In the second case, we'll need to get the word out that he talked, and didn't have anything for us. They won't have any further need to come after him."

David nodded. "I'm assuming we're on security."

"You got it," Megan said, with a small smile. "Merrick's going to get a couple of our guys out of Houston to help out. We'll do the fake obituary, just like we did with Don – private cremation ceremony, and so on." She felt a pang of guilt as she spoke; she knew that they wouldn't be able to tell Larry, Amita, or Millie, and she could only imagine what the news of Charlie's death would do to them.

She glanced at Alan. "We'll need to fill Alan in. The big thing will be making sure the doctors are discreet – that they and their staff keep it quiet."

She glanced at the doors to Charlie's exam room as they opened. They were wheeling Charlie out, and Alan shot to his feet, and was at the gurney's side in an instant.

For the first time, Alan got a look at Charlie's face. It was thin and pale under the oxygen mask, but that part of him at least looked something like the son he knew. "Where are you taking him?"

"We need to get a CAT scan and an MRI of his head," replied the doctor, his eyes compassionate. "You can come with him to Radiology if you like." Alan nodded, his eyes glued to his Charlie's face, fighting the tears that sprang to his eyes. It seemed like years since he had seen him; and he was suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. The young man on the gurney seemed almost like a stranger – they had been separated by time, by distance, by the horrific things that Charlie had gone through. He desperately wanted his son back – to look into his eyes, and know that Charlie was still – Charlie.

As the gurney moved away, Megan gently pulled the doctor aside to discuss Merrick's plan with him. Colby and David kept pace with the gurney, and as Colby glanced at Charlie's still, lifeless face, he hoped fervently that the obituary they planned to issue would actually be a false one.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

"Paulson." Jeff Paulson answered his cell phone, turning away from Weeks, the border guard captain.

Tompkins spoke from the other end. "Jeff – I got the message that you called. I'm sorry; I was on the other line, talking to Merrick. I'm guessing that you have a report?"

"Well, a partial one," said Paulson, as he stepped away from Weeks, who nodded his understanding of the interruption. "I'm still on the Mexican side, working with the border guard. What's the word on Eppes?"

Tompkins sighed heavily. "That's what Walt called to tell me. I'm afraid Charlie didn't make it. He was DOA – by drowning."

Paulson felt a huge surge of relief, but he put on a crushed expression for any onlookers. "Damn it, Bob. After all that…"

"I know," said Tompkins quietly. "It doesn't seem right."

"What about the others?" asked Paulson.

"Don Eppes and Ian Edgerton were injured – gunshot wounds, but I think they are going to make it. They're at McAllen Medical Center, in surgery, right now." He paused for a minute. "What happened today?"

Paulson picked his words carefully. "Well, as you know, we didn't get a call this morning. I guess the Feds decided to strike off on their own. I had put a couple of guys scanning the highway on/off ramps, watching traffic, and one of them picked up Conway's van, getting on in a hurry and heading toward Reynosa. It took us a few minutes to collect our guys, but we got on after them. It was a lucky break, really."

"When we got to town, it was a mess. We could see the traffic backed up way ahead of us, then we saw Conway's van and two sedans pull out of line and start heading east. We followed them to the river, and got involved in the gun battle. We were trying to help the Feds, but it was a mess – we were firing at each other in the brush, trying to figure out who was who. I'm afraid when we do all of the ballistics we're going to have some friendly fire casualties." Paulson paused to let that sink in.

"How many?"

"We're still trying to find and ID bodies, but the only guys I have left are Avilar and Kirtland."

"Jesus."

"Yeah."

Tompkins sighed; then spoke as if a thought suddenly occurred to him. "We did get an ID on one of the men – I guess Edgerton came around before surgery and told one of Merrick's people that one the guys involved in the pursuit was Tommy Sykes. It kind of threw me, because I thought he worked in your area."

Paulson froze, his mind working furiously, manufacturing a blatant lie. "Yeah, he did. It was kind of a shock when Conway picked him – I was thinking of choosing him for my team."

Thank God, Paulson thought, that he provided a single list to Tompkins, in alphabetical order, of all of his and Conway's men together. There was no way to tell from that list which man was on which team. And since Sykes had been killed in the gun battle, there was no one to say differently. "I feel like all of this is my fault," he added. "You put me in charge of trying to find the traitor – I checked Conway out, and I never found anything.

Tompkins sounded tired. "Don't beat yourself up, Jeff. I picked Conway myself for this assignment. I basically let the wolf in the hen house. He had us all fooled."

"I'd love to get my hands on him," said Paulson, through gritted teeth. God, he was such an actor. He should get the Academy Award for this one.

"Wouldn't we all," said Tompkins grimly. "We'll find him, eventually."

Good luck with that, thought Paulson, smugly. "Yes sir. As soon as we have all of the casualties, I'll report back in."

"All right," replied Tompkins. "Thanks, Jeff; I know this has been a tough one."

"No problem, sir. I'll talk to you soon." Paulson hung up the phone and took a deep breath, fully cognizant of how close he had come to discovery. Actually, now that Tompkins believed that Sykes had belonged to Conway, Sykes' death actually lent credibility to the story. It would look like one of Conway's men had been killed on the scene. And Charles Eppes was dead. Things were looking better and better.

He frowned for a moment, thinking about the FBI's involvement in this. He still didn't trust them. He motioned for Avilar, and pulled him aside. "I need you to verify something for me. Tompkins just called, and told me that Eppes didn't make it – just as you suspected, he drowned. After all of the bullshit the feds have been feeding us, I want to make sure. Go stake out the hospital; see if you can find out one way or another."

Avilar nodded, and discreetly made off. Paulson walked back over to Weeks as some border guards trundled by, carrying Abboud's body. "Iranian bastards," said Paulson to Weeks, looking at Abboud, knowing that ballistics would find his bullet in the man's chest. "I think I got that one myself."

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Tompkins hung up the phone, and hit his speed dial. "Walt?"

Merrick responded. "Yeah, Bob. Did you talk to Paulson?"

"Yeah, his story seemed to check out. He told me that Conway actually picked Sykes for his team. Everything he said seemed to jive with the facts as we know them. I don't have any reason to think he isn't clean, especially with Conway being AWOL."

Merrick sighed. "I still think it's a good idea for you to keep the fact that Dr. Eppes is alive to yourself. Someone had to be leaking info on their movements – maybe one of Paulson's guys is dirty, and he doesn't know it."

"No, Walt, I agree. There's no reason for me to give out that information – in fact, after what's happened; wild horses couldn't drag it out of me. Any word on their condition?"

"Don Eppes and Edgerton are in surgery right now; and Dr. Eppes is going through some scans and some testing. He's still unconscious."

Tompkins paused for a moment, fighting off a cloud of guilt. He was keenly aware that he had put the young professor in this position, and had given his son-in-law the assignment that led to his death. His only solace was the lives that had been saved, as a result of their involvement. He collected himself, gave Merrick a perfunctory thank you, and hung up, lost in his thoughts.

Merrick sat immersed in dark thoughts of his own. Finally he picked up the phone again, and dialed his secretary. "Marcie? Can you get me the address of Gerardo Garcia's parents? Thank you." He hung up and stared at the blotter on his desktop, wondering for the first time in his career if the job wasn't getting to be a bit too much.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 38


	39. Chapter 39

**Chapter 39**

Avilar shifted uncomfortably in the diner booth, his eyes on the hospital lot. It had been three days since the battle on the riverbank, and his assignment was wearing thin. His inquiries at the hospital had indicated that Charles Eppes was in fact dead, there was a body with that name in the morgue registry, and no live patient registered under that name.

Surveillance on every floor revealed that a guard had been put on only two rooms – Edgerton's and Don Eppes', which were both listed as private. Avilar had tried and failed to get access to the body in the morgue for a positive ID, so Paulson had ordered him to stay until the Eppes family left. If the doctor was actually dead, they would need to bring the body back to L.A. at some point. Paulson wanted him to witness their departure, to make sure that a body was with them when they went.

Paulson had discussed with Asif the wisdom of trying to take out Don Eppes and Ian Edgerton, in case the professor had told them what he knew. Asif had gone into hiding days ago, as soon as the FBI had taken Dr. Eppes, to be on the safe side. However, when two days had passed since the professor's death, and there were no signs that anyone was looking for Asif, he and Paulson had decided that Eppes and Edgerton must not know anything. When Paulson told Avilar that they would not need to eliminate the FBI agents, he breathed a sigh of relief. They would be difficult to get to with the security, and even wounded, those were two men he didn't care to tangle with.

Paulson and Kirtland had gone back to headquarters in Maryland, and Mahir and his remaining man had left Mexico. Only Avilar was left, stuck in the warm, sticky diner, waiting for the Eppes family to leave, watching for a casket. It was a ridiculous assignment, he thought. He scowled sourly at the table and angrily swatted a fly with the day's paper, which hit the Formica with a sharp whack.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don glanced sideways at his father, who was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his head bowed, in almost an attitude of prayer. He could see the fatigue in the slump of his father's shoulders, in the lines of his face, as he sat in front of the still figure in the other bed. It had been three days, and Charlie was not yet conscious.

The doctors had no good explanation for it. The head injury, according to the scans, should have resulted in a moderate concussion at the most; Charlie should have wakened long before now. Don's mind ran back over the doctor's conversation with him and his father. They had done blood work, and found odd substances still there. When they tried to explain the results, they had said something about neuropeptides, and binding agents.

Don had told them about the injections, and a day later two more doctors showed up – one an expert in treating torture victims, and the other a neurological doctor who specialized in pain, from Bethesda Naval Hospital. The first doctor didn't say where he was from, and Don surmised he was a spook, associated with the CIA. Although the doctor had heard of the substance that they used on Charlie, he had never actually seen a victim of it who had lived. The specialists put their heads together with the McAllen neurologists, arguing over whether Charlie's brain waves indicated that he was in a coma, or merely unconscious, and muttering about permanent neurological damage.

One thing was certain, Charlie was very ill. The infection and fever had returned, along with the beginnings of pneumonia from the river water he had aspirated. The doctors had pumped him full of antibiotics, and tried to encourage Alan, but Charlie's continued high fever and unconsciousness were eroding Alan's faith that his son would recover.

Don's prognosis was good, as was Ian's. They were both recovering from their wounds. Don's doctor told him that although he would need extensive physical therapy, there should be no long-term effects – the damage was confined to muscle only; the ligaments and tendons were intact. Alan seemed relieved to hear that, but Don took the news disinterestedly. He held the perverse conviction that it didn't seem right that he should be doing so well, when his brother wasn't.

As a matter of fact, Don could have been discharged yesterday, but they were keeping him as a patient in order to hide Charlie's presence. To anyone watching the floor, it would look like the guard outside the room was assigned purely for Don's sake. The arrangement suited him just fine; he had no intention of leaving his brother's side.

Alan raised his head and looked sadly at the still figure in front of him, and lifted his hand, placing it on Charlie's thin one, stroking the back of it gently. He murmured a few words; he had been trying to stimulate Charlie by touch and by talking to him, as the doctors suggested. He was still trying, but his efforts were dispirited. After hours and hours of no response, he couldn't help but be discouraged. His only ray of hope was that the fever seemed down slightly that morning, and the infectious disease specialist had appeared optimistic that Charlie was turning a corner, at least as far as the infection was concerned.

The thin pale face was unresponsive, motionless. Nearly translucent eyelids hid the normally expressive eyes. Charlie's breathing sounded a bit wheezy, and Alan was worrying about whether they would need to replace the nasal canula with an oxygen mask, when he heard footsteps behind him. A bevy of doctors entered the room – the torture specialist, the pain specialist, and the McAllen neurologists stepped in and congregated around the bed, accompanied by Megan Reeves. Alan stood and pushed back the chair to make room.

One of the neurologists moved forward and lifted one Charlie's eyelids, then the other, shining a light into the pupils. Alan strained to see – he craved a glimpse of the dark eyes, even if they were sightless. The other neurologist spoke to him. "Any changes – signs of movement, vocalizations?"

Alan shook his head, dejectedly. "No, nothing." Charlie's absolute stillness, especially with a fever, was indeed frightening. Ordinarily when Charlie had a fever, he was extremely restless.

Megan looked at Don and Alan. "Merrick and the doctors have been talking about what needs to happen next. To keep up the appearance that Charlie is - dead -," she stumbled momentarily over the word, "we need to make some adjustments. If he really was gone, Alan, you would be bringing his body back to L.A. by now." She looked at Alan with concern – the subject matter was clearly bothering him, and his complexion had turned pasty. Don didn't look any better – his eyes glittered in his pale face, suffused with some emotion that didn't look healthy.

"I know this is hard," she said, "but for Charlie's continued safety and to promote his recovery, we need to do two things. First, we need you and Don to return to L.A. We will fly you back on a private jet, and an empty casket will go back with you. If anyone is watching, it will look like you are returning home with Charlie. Don can continue treatment and therapy at home. Secondly, the doctors want to take Charlie with them to Bethesda, for more testing, and some specialized neurological therapy."

Don and Alan both spoke at once. "No way." "I am not leaving my son."

Megan eyed the identical fierce expressions on both faces and sighed. "I was afraid you would say that." She looked at the torture specialist.

He spoke. "Agent Reeves warned us that would probably be your reaction. We have more equipment and other specialists at our disposal in Bethesda; that is why we would prefer to be there. My colleague and I are willing to travel to L.A., however, if that is what you insist on, at least for a while. There are some other therapies we can try in L.A., but if we see no results, we will still want to take him to Bethesda."

Alan let out a breath. "Yes, I would much prefer that we try L.A. first."

Megan nodded. "We'll start the arrangements." She turned, with a quick sympathetic smile at Don, and left, and the other doctors followed her, except for the first neurologist, who was making notes in Charlie's chart.

Alan looked at him, frowning. "I know this is unusual, and hard to diagnose, but have you found anything at all – or ruled out anything?"

The neurologist looked at him kindly. "As far as why he is still unconscious, no. Charlie's injuries are actually fairly superficial; even the head injury. There is no trauma serious enough in itself to cause the unconscious state, so we are assuming that it was caused by the tremendous levels of pain he was subjected to."

At Alan's doubtful look, he continued. "From a medical standpoint, we are only beginning to understand the functions and effects of pain. Sometimes patients go into comas, or semi-comas, for reasons that we can't comprehend. We suspect that in Charlie's case, it may be due to neurological overload – his nervous system was subject to such strain, bombarded by so much pain, that it just shut down. The head injury may simply have been the final straw. We think the chemicals in his blood are still causing pain signals, still interfering with the processing of substance P, which causes pain. What does make us optimistic is that those chemicals do appear to be breaking down – very slowly – but they are breaking down. We're hopeful that when they reach a low enough level, his nervous system will be allowed to heal. We think, in fact, it's healing now."

"So he will wake up." Don spoke quietly from his bed.

"We think so. We just don't know when – it could be minutes, days; weeks." He nodded at them, and walked briskly from the room, leaving them staring silently at the motionless form across the room.

Being confined to his bed for several days had given Don time to think. In the ensuing silence, his mind returned to its self-flagellation; repeatedly, the images played in his head. He blamed himself for the initial abduction, for not having backup, for not planning better for such a possibility, for not fighting harder, for letting Charlie be taken in the first place. He could still see the pain on Charlie's face; hear his screams. And worst of all, he saw the look on his brother's face when Charlie had told him he loved him, and got nothing in return. The thoughts kept replaying in the same order, an endless litany of blame, wearing a rut in his mind, driving a fresh spear through his heart with each repetition. He gazed morosely at his brother, and knew that it was true; he had failed him, on every level.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Ian Edgerton stared at the wall in front of him. He had the television tuned to CNN; he liked to keep abreast of current events, but the day's stories had repeated twice now, and his mind was elsewhere. At a light knock at the door, he looked up, expecting to see Granger, or Sinclair, or Reeves. They had been his only visitors, and their conversations had been polite, but strained. None of them had forgotten what he had done to Charlie at Los Padres; he continued to be a pariah, an outsider. In spite of his efforts to help on this assignment, he was still not entirely trusted.

He was more than a little surprised to see Don Eppes, on crutches. He nodded, silently, and Don entered, looking uncomfortable.

"Have a seat," said Ian. "It looks like you're getting around a little better than I am."

Don shook his head, and balanced on one leg. He was becoming accustomed to crutches; he had spent some time on them just months ago due to the leg fracture he had sustained at Los Padres. "I can't stay. We're leaving in a few minutes. Charlie's fever is down some; they think it's safe to move him. They took him an hour ago. Dad went to get his things at the hotel; he's on his way back."

Edgerton nodded. "Reeves told me." Silence descended, thick and uncomfortable.

Don's eyes wandered downward, and Ian regarded him. Eppes seemed better physically, he thought, but he still looked like a wreck mentally.

Don spoke, his eyes shifting upward again, finding Ian's. "I just wanted to – to thank you. You saved both of our lives, and I wanted you to know that I'm grateful. Especially for Charlie."

Ian stared back, and he could see the sincerity, the hint of acceptance, in Don's eyes. A little piece of him warmed with hope, but he tamped it down. He had no room for useless emotions. His own eyes remained expressionless. "Don't mention it. I was just doing my job."

The corner of Don's mouth twisted, wryly, and he looked away. "Yeah, well, thanks." He looked back at Ian. "Take care of yourself."

He turned, heading out of the room slowly, and Ian spoke to his retreating back. "You too." Don paused for just moment, but didn't turn, and then hobbled out of the door.

Ian stared at the empty doorway for a minute; then shifted his eyes back to the wall. Don's thanks didn't change anything, he realized, the guilt was still there. The debt he owed was too great, but he knew with conviction that he would continue to try to repay it, even if it took his entire lifetime.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Avilar sat up straight in the booth and watched with interest. Alan Eppes had left an hour ago, and since he was alone, Avilar chose not to follow him. Now he had returned, but instead of parking in the lot, he pulled in front of the hospital entrance. As Avilar saw Don Eppes being wheeled out, he rose to his feet, watching as Eppes rose on one leg, hopped the two steps to the rental car, and got in. Avilar was outside and heading for his vehicle before they pulled away.

He followed them to the airport, and circled around the small airfield. When he spotted the private jet, he pulled into a spot in long term parking with a view of the plane, and got out his binoculars. He was almost close enough to see with the naked eye, but he wanted to be sure. He had plenty of time to watch them; the plane was parked on the runway, and Don Eppes had to navigate not only the tarmac, but the stairs, on crutches. Avilar had no idea that Charlie had taken off in another jet, accompanied by a nurse and a physician, an hour ago.

He clearly saw Alan and Don enter the plane, and then watched with satisfaction as a hospital ambulance pulled up, and the aluminum-covered transportation casket was loaded carefully into the cargo area, and secured. With a smile of relief, he flipped open his cell phone and dialed Paulson. The body of Charles Eppes was going home, thought Avilar, and finally, so was he.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

The following afternoon, Don crutched wearily down the hallway to his brother's room at Huntington, pausing for breath. He was still recovering himself, and it had been a long day already.

Much to Alan's dismay, Merrick had insisted that they go straight home the night before, without a visit to the hospital. Merrick was afraid that there might still be surveillance on them. To Alan's increasing frustration, Merrick had staged the private memorial at the crematorium this morning, and he and his father had put on their suits, and gone to a supposed service in the chapel attached to the building. Megan, David, and Merrick were there, and Colby had been assigned to watch the street outside.

Alan was beside himself for the whole hour that they were there, frantic that Charlie would wake up while they were gone. While they were inside, Colby phoned in to Merrick and reported that they were being watched; he had spotted Joe Sithman, the man who had tried to stage the kidnapping at CalSci, outside, sitting in his car. Unfortunately, they could do nothing about it; if Colby arrested him, it would be apparent that they had counter-surveillance set up, which would be a tip-off that things weren't as they appeared.

Now Don and Alan were back at the hospital, using Don's physical therapy session as their excuse to be there. Alan had gone on ahead to meet with the doctors, and as Don made his way down the hall, he recognized the figure sitting outside the door. The man, posing as an intern, was an agent out of the Denver office named Link. He was dressed in scrubs, pretending to study in a chair just outside Charlie's door.

Don had met him once, and personally didn't care for him, although the man had a solid reputation as a good agent. In fact, he was one of the bureau's rising stars, but his hard-bitten cynical attitude had rubbed Don the wrong way. He probably couldn't ask for a better guard, though, he admitted. They exchanged expressionless nods, and as Don made his way into the room, a nurse bustled in behind him to take readings. Don's eyes went immediately to Charlie, lying motionless in the bed.

His cell phone rang, and the nurse shot him a stern glance. "You'll have to turn that off in here," she said.

Don nodded, but he already had it up to his ear, and he left it there. "Eppes." She shot him an annoyed look.

"Don, it's Megan, where are you?"

"Charlie's room, why?" he asked, frowning.

"Sithman followed you and your dad to the hospital. He's still sitting outside, but you need to get out of there and get to your therapy appointment, in case he decides to come in and check things out. Tell Alan to go with you and sit in the waiting area by the therapy rooms."

"He's not here – he's with the doctors," said Don. He looked at the nurse, who was glaring. "Do me a favor, call my dad and tell him. I need to shut off this phone. I'm heading down right now."

He pressed the off button, snapped the phone shut, and crutched out the door, hurriedly, down the hallway. His dad was going to be irate; he only had an hour and half to be with Charlie, the length of Don's PT appointment, and this was going to cut into part of it. He hoped Sithman made it fast; he had a feeling if he didn't, Alan would wring the man's neck himself. Now that he thought about it, that activity would be something that Don himself would enjoy participating in. That happy vision accompanied him all the way to his therapy session, and well into it.

Alan was beyond irate; he sat and fumed in the waiting area. He had buried his face in his hands in frustration, and as Sithman passed by the area, Alan looked the picture of the grieving father. Sithman drifted past the desk, checked the sign-in, and casually peeked in the door, to see Don hard at work with his therapist, with a dark look on his face. Moments later Sithman was on his way out, and was on his cell phone before he reached his car.

As soon as Alan got the call from Megan that all was clear, he was upstairs like a shot. He sank gratefully into the chair next to the bed, drinking in the sight of his son's face.

He reached out and ran a gentle hand along Charlie's cheek. The doctors had told him that Charlie's temperature was now near normal, and Alan could feel that his skin was cooler. His fingertips caressed the dark curls nestled against his cheek, careful not to go past the ear, where Alan knew there were stitches. He had a feeling all day that this would be the day that his son would wake up; it wasn't rational, he knew, but the sensation was strong, and he couldn't shake it. Or perhaps, he didn't want to.

He was so sure, that when Don finished his session and Megan called up, he turned off his phone instead of answering it. He had to stay just a little longer…Megan had to call Link, who came in and insisted that he leave. Megan's orders, Link said, emotionlessly – they shouldn't stay past Don's therapy time, in case they were still being watched.

Alan trod wearily down the hall, frustrated nearly to tears. He had waited an entire day to see his son, for a paltry fifty minutes that had seemed to fly by. Worse yet was the conviction that Charlie would wake up while he was gone. He stumped out to the car, and pulled it up to the entrance, glowering as Don climbed in.

"Let's stop and get some dinner somewhere, Dad," suggested Don gently.

Alan growled back. "Fine." He pulled out of the lot, and then added, wagging a finger, "He's going to wake up. You watch – he'll wake up tonight and we won't be there."

Neither of them had remembered to turn their cell phones back on. They were barely ten minutes down the road when Charlie opened his eyes.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 39


	40. Chapter 40

**Chapter 40**

Alan and Don stopped at one of the first places they came to, a little diner with bistro pretensions that specialized in sandwiches. Alan stared at his menu without interest, cursing the fate that had been visited on his family, frustration at not being able to be with Charlie still simmering in his mind. Even as preoccupied as he was, he noticed after a few moments that Don wasn't even looking at the menu; he was staring off into space with the same black look that Alan had noticed several times in the last few days.

Alan watched him for a few seconds, his expression softening. He had been so concerned about Charlie, and Don seemed to be coming along so well physically, that Alan hadn't really paid the attention to his oldest son that he should have. Don had been there for much of what Charlie had gone through; he had to witness things that Alan could barely stand to hear about, much less see. Plus, he had faced danger and injury himself. Like always, however, his oldest had put it aside, filed all the emotion away in some murky file cabinet in his psyche. And Alan, focused on Charlie, had allowed him to do it.

Alan raised an eyebrow. "See anything good?"

"Huh?" Don came out of his dark reverie, and stared at him in confusion. "Oh, I'll probably just get a burger."

"How did your session go?" asked Alan gently.

Don shrugged. "Okay. The therapist says I'm ahead of schedule." He made a show of looking at his menu.

"You schedule any sessions with Dr. Bradford yet?" asked Alan, putting on his reading glasses with studied casualness.

"Nah," said Don. "I will. I just want to make sure I'm available for Charlie, you know, when he wakes up. I'll worry about that later."

Alan eyed him. "You really shouldn't put it off. It could be weeks, the doctor said."

Don looked at him dryly. "What happened to 'he'll wake up tonight?'"

Alan smiled back and rubbed his face wearily. "Yeah, well…maybe it's wishful thinking. Boy, I just had the strongest feeling though, looking at him in the hospital, that he would…" The smile faded, and he stared wistfully at his menu, his eyes focused on nothing.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Charlie's heart was pounding. As awareness returned and he found himself alone in a hospital room, with no idea as to how he got there, his anxiety grew. He was completely disoriented; he could remember pieces of the last several days, but he wasn't sure if they had been dreams, or reality. Was he still in the hospital in Mexico, and all of it – the rescue, the cross-country flight, the shantytown, the river – just vivid dreams manufactured by his pain-riddle brain?

He shuddered as he remembered Conway's men, and the interrogation. Was that real? Did the hospital doctors find him - and was that why he was back in a hospital room, still alive? Or was he somewhere else entirely? Had he really made it through the river? That idea seemed so unlikely that he was beginning to think that the river had been a dream. And if that was a dream, then the trip across Mexico, the rescue, was that a dream too? His stomach dropped. If that was the case, then were his memories of Don real – was Don alive? If he was, why wasn't he here?

A flood of panic surged through him, and he tried to turn his head, looking for a call button. He had to know. His head felt like it was being restrained, but he realized that the only restraint was his own weakness – he could barely turn his head, and his arm felt like lead, as he tried to feel for the button. His efforts dislodged the pulse sensor on his finger, and the monitor began to beep. The noise sounded unbelievably loud, it pounded at his ears, and he closed his eyes in pain.

He heard soft footsteps in the room, and opened his eyes again, to see a nurse bending over him, with an intern looking over her shoulder. She shut off the monitor, peering into his eyes. "Can you hear me?" she asked; her voice also unnaturally loud.

"Yes." The word came out as a whisper, with just a hint of a voice behind it.

"Can you tell me your name?"

"Charles. Eppes." Words were a huge effort.

She turned and spoke softly to the intern, who nodded, and then she hurried out. The intern regarded him with cool expressionless eyes. "My name is Agent Link, Dr. Eppes, with the FBI. The nurse went to get your doctors."

Charlie gazed at him with trepidation. He no longer trusted anyone. This man could be one of Conway's people, posing as FBI, and he would have no way of knowing. "Where's my brother?" he managed to whisper.

Link stared back at him, his eyes appraising. "He's not here right now. As soon as the doctors get a chance to check you out, we need to talk. I have orders to debrief you as soon as possible."

Charlie's heart dropped. Debriefing. More interrogation. Don wasn't here – something was definitely wrong. It was suddenly hard to breathe. _Please, God, no more. I can't take any more. _

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Colby burst into the diner, just as the waitress approached the table to take their order. Alan was facing the door, and leapt to his feet as he saw him come in, bumping the table and sloshing water out of their glasses. The waitress shot him an annoyed look, but he ignored her. "What is it?" he asked, panic in his voice, as Don grabbed his crutches and struggled to his feet.

"You guys didn't have your cell phones on," said Colby. "We've been trying to call you. Charlie's awake."

Don threw a ten on the table to mollify the flustered waitress as they filed out after him. "What about surveillance?" he asked quietly as they got outside.

Colby shook his head. "Sithman's gone. He waited until you left, to make sure that you were actually leaving after your appointment was over, and he took off. My bet is that they're done with that, but at any rate, he's not around now. Merrick said it's okay for you to go back." He looked at Alan's retreating back – the senior Eppes had already taken off for the car at a trot.

Just minutes later, they were back at Huntington.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Charlie stared at the two men, supposedly doctors, who entered the room and stepped in front of the supposed intern. He didn't recognize either of them. One of them approached and pulled out a stethoscope, and Charlie flinched as the doctor placed it on his chest.

"Just relax, Dr. Eppes," the Bethesda pain specialist said. "Your heart and respiration rates are extremely high – I just want to take a listen."

Charlie was trembling. "Where's my brother?" he croaked.

"We're trying to locate him," said the pain specialist. A lab technician bustled in with a kit, and Charlie stared in horror as he selected a syringe.

The other doctor spoke. "We're just going to get a little blood work, doctor. Please relax."

"No," rasped Charlie; as terror took hold of him. They were lying – he was going to get another injection. He called out weakly, "Someone, please…"

Alan had dropped Don off at the door, and he had immediately started heading upstairs on his crutches, knowing that Alan would catch up. Alan, in fact, had moved so quickly after he parked the car; that he passed Don in the hallway to Charlie's room and they approached the doorway one behind the other. As Alan entered, he heard the feeble cry, and he responded with pent up fury, and the instincts of an animal protecting its young. "Get away from my son!" he barked.

Don was right behind him, shooting Link and the doctors a furious look. "What in the hell's going on in here?"

Charlie heard the familiar voices and froze, staring. As Alan approached, the fear began to recede from his face, and was replaced by a sense of something beyond relief – the knowledge that it was okay to let his guard down; to finally release the pain and the fear. The emotion flooded him. "Dad?"

His voice sounded weak, unsure, almost childlike, and it tore Alan's heart, as he bent over the bedside and embraced his son. Charlie was trembling, his face twisted with emotion, and Alan held him securely, gently, his cheek pressed against Charlie's forehead. "It's okay, son. I'm here. Everything's going to be okay."

Don glared at the doctors and at the lab technician, who was still standing there uncertainly, holding the syringe. He had a good idea what had generated Charlie's reaction. "Put that thing away," he growled to the technician.

"We really should get some blood work," said the torture specialist. "We'd like to check the levels of the neuropeptide."

Colby entered the room, just in time to hear Don say, "If you try to use that syringe on him right now, you'll find it up your ass," and he had to turn away to hide the grin on his face. The grin faded as he heard a moan from Charlie, and he turned to see the frail figure collapse in pain.

"What's happening?" asked Alan, panicked, as Charlie twisted slightly sideways, too weak to make it into a fetal position, shaking; his eyes closed in agony.

The specialists stared at the monitor readings, which were fluctuating wildly, then at their patient, and finally at each other. "I don't know," said the pain specialist, his brow furrowed with concern, as he moved forward.

Don was staring at his brother, horror resurfacing in his eyes. "It's what they called an aftershock," he said hoarsely. _I thought they were gone, _he said to himself in despair_. God, I thought they were done. _He knew, with sudden certainty; that he couldn't take any more; he couldn't watch his brother endure yet more pain. Without another word, he turned, and hobbled out the door.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Alan knew of the aftershocks from Don's description, and he was aware that this one was less intense than the others that had come before it. It lasted five minutes, instead of ten, but those five minutes were some of the longest Alan had ever experienced. He watched Charlie ride out the episode, helplessly listening to his cries of pain, watching him writhe weakly in agony, his eyes shut tightly, his breathing ragged. At the end of it, Charlie was gasping, and it took several more minutes before he was breathing evenly. The doctors watched the monitors anxiously, noting pulse rates and rhythms, respiration, blood pressure, blood oxygen and other readings, jotting notes on their clipboards. By the end of it, Alan was near tears, and when Charlie's eyes finally opened, the look of despair in them pierced his heart.

Alan looked up at the specialists, and fixed his eyes on them pleadingly. "Can't you do something about this?"

The pain specialist frowned, concern on his face. "We can try pain medication, but if this is still from the drug he was given, it probably won't be very effective. The way the neuropeptide works will likely circumvent the medication." He looked at Charlie, whose eyes were open again, in slits of pain. "We really need to get that blood work, if you can take it. I promise; that's all it is – just blood work."

Charlie gripped his father's hand, and closed his eyes, nodding weakly. Mercifully, the technician was skilled and quick, and Alan held Charlie's hand tightly as the man worked. Minutes later the room was empty, but Alan hadn't moved. He still held Charlie's hand, and whispered words of encouragement, looking into the dark eyes, until they closed from exhaustion.

He heard a noise behind him, and turned to see Don standing, leaning on his crutches in the doorway, his face drawn. "I'm sorry, Dad," he said, his voice strained. "I just couldn't watch any more."

Alan nodded sadly, and patted the seat of the chair next to him. "I understand, son, and I'm sure Charlie does too." His voice cracked a little as he spoke, before he turned back to look at the pale face in front of him. "So much pain…,' he whispered, as if to himself, and he laid a gentle hand on Charlie's.

Don came and sat beside him, staring at Charlie with haunted eyes. "What did the doctors say?"

Alan shook his head. "They took a bunch of readings, and blood work, and they left. I don't think they know."

Don shook his head. "They have to figure out something. I don't know how much more he can take."

Alan didn't reply, but he was afraid he knew the answer to that question. The look of despair in Charlie's eyes had given it to him, with painful clarity.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 40


	41. Chapter 41

**Chapter 41**

"Hey, Buddy, how are you feeling?" murmured Don, as he crutched around Alan to Charlie's bedside, the next morning. His father had spent the night at the hospital with Charlie, and Megan had driven Don home in Alan's vehicle, just to keep up appearances, to make it look like they were at the house. Since Sithman had left the hospital yesterday, however, they had seen no signs of surveillance.

Don had risen and dressed for his physical therapy appointment, but had stopped in the room before reporting in for it, and was rewarded with the sight of his brother's dark eyes. He looked into them, hopefully.

"'Kay," whispered Charlie, but his face was still drawn with pain. Don looked at Alan, and wasn't reassured; his father looked careworn, worried.

Alan patted Charlie's hand. "Try to get some rest, son. I'm going to talk to Don for a minute –we'll be right there in the hallway."

Outside the doorway, Don looked at Alan anxiously. "How did he do last night?"

Alan sighed. "Not great. He's still in a fair amount of pain. He didn't sleep much, and he had another aftershock last night. The doctors are concerned – they think the healing that's happened so far is at best on hold; the pain is wearing him down. His fever was up again this morning."

"They can't do anything for it?"

Alan shook his head, sadly. "They gave him Fentanyl this morning; it's stronger than morphine, they said. It didn't seem to do a thing. They said that we're in uncharted territory – they've only worked with a handful of people who have been subjected to that drug, and no one who has lived through three injections. To be honest, I think they're stumped."

Don looked anxiously through the doorway at the slight figure in the bed. Charlie's eyes were closed, but his brow was furrowed with pain. He looked exhausted. Don looked back at his father as Alan continued. "In spite of all that, Merrick wants to debrief him. . The doctors weren't crazy about it – they said he's not strong enough yet, but Merrick convinced them that Charlie would be safer once he's talked. Actually, Merrick will be here for it, and he wanted you here too."

"What time?" asked Don.

"He set it up after your appointment, later this morning. He said he had somewhere he needed to be, this afternoon."

Don nodded. "Me, too. Agent Garcia's funeral is this afternoon."

Alan's forehead furrowed. "How are you getting there?"

"David's going to pick me up, but I think I'm going to be cleared for driving today anyway. They said yesterday I'm ready for a cane."

A bit of relief washed into Alan's face. "That's good, Donnie."

"Yeah," said Don, but he sounded unconvinced. His eyes wandered back to his brother, and Alan's followed them, and they looked at him silently, as a helpless fear settled inside of them. Wounds could be stitched; infections could be treated with antibiotics. When the enemy was pain itself, it seemed that even the best and brightest in the medical profession were at a loss.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Marlena listened half-heartedly as the priest spoke. In spite of her faith, words even from the priest meant little. Her beloved younger brother, Gerardo was gone. A spasm of grief swept through her, as she remembered his dancing eyes, his beautiful smile. Her only consolation was that he had gone the way he would have wanted to, on his terms.

Her eyes drifted across the gravesite to the cluster of FBI agents. It was a good showing – most of the L.A. agents were there, all of the Tucson agents were there, as were many from the Albuquerque office. They had all come to pay their respects, but her eyes rested on one in particular, wearing aviator sunglasses, leaning on a cane.

For Don, it was reunion of sorts. It was the first time he had seen many of the agents from his own office since he had gone on assignment, and they had just been told that morning that he was actually alive. If the occasion hadn't been so solemn, senior agent or not, he would have been mobbed. As it was, he was hugged, back-slapped and arm-punched, and his hand shaken until it felt ready to drop off. He got almost the same treatment from the Albuquerque agents who had known him.

The reception was humbling, and a little disconcerting. How was it, Don wondered, that he managed to get that kind of reaction from his co-workers? Maybe Garcia had been right, and he wasn't quite as hard-bitten and world-weary as he appeared. Maybe somehow, the fact that he still gave a damn about people showed through. The thought should have made him feel good, but instead, it turned his stomach. Apparently, he could manage to make everyone around him feel that he cared about them - except for the one person that it meant the most to – Charlie.

As the priest spoke, his mind drifted back to the debriefing that morning.

_The hospital personnel had raised the head of Charlie's bed, and propped him up on either side with pillows. It gave the illusion that he was strong enough to sit up, that he was stronger than he appeared. How much of that was actually illusion became apparent as they started to question Charlie. He was extremely weak, and his voice came out as a strained half-whisper. It was obvious that it was taking all that he had to concentrate through the pain, and to form answers to their questions. Merrick conducted the questioning, with Link taking notes._

_In spite of his weakness, Charlie had managed to give them an abbreviated account of what had happened to him after the warehouse. Even as spare as the description was, they all felt the horror of what Charlie must have gone through as he received his second injection, and then a third. Don had supplied what had occurred after they rescued Charlie from Hermosillo. They came away with Mohammed Asif's name, along with Charlie's verification of Mahir and Kafa's pictures, and Charlie's confirmation that the men who had taken him for questioning at the hospital had admitted they belonged to Conway. Afterward, Charlie was exhausted, and almost immediately fell into a fitful sleep. Don had sat gazing at him sadly for a long while, until Alan had come into the room._

With a bit of a start, Don came back to the present. The priest had finished eulogizing and Don stood staring silently as Garcia's body was lowered into the earth. '_Now that was a man worth respecting_,' he thought despondently. He could see the devotion in the eyes of Garcia's family. Don felt quite certain that Gerardo had never let any of _his_ family members down.

Liz watched silently as Don limped across the grass to give his condolences to the Garcia family. He hugged one of them, a beautiful woman who she surmised was Gerardo's sister, just a little too tightly - a moment too long.

Don made his way back slowly and fell in beside Liz as they walked slowly to the parking lot, and took in her raised eyebrows. He felt an odd urge to explain. "Marlena Garcia is a doctor. She took care of Charlie when we were in Monterrey."

Liz kept her expression carefully neutral. His need to clarify things made her heart twist. Was he simply being courteous, and explaining his actions because he was concerned about her, their relationship? Or were his words generated by guilt? "Mmm," she murmured, and they walked in silence toward their vehicles. She had no way of knowing what the sight of Marlena had meant to Don, or his sad but determined vow to himself that he would not see her, while he was committed to Liz.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Paulson felt his heart stop, and he stared at Tompkins in disbelief. "Alive? You're kidding! Wow, that's great!"

Tompkins smiled. "Yes, he still has a lot of recovery ahead of him, but he's alive. They debriefed him this morning."

With a massive effort, Paulson avoided the urge to turn his head, to see if federal agents were silently entering the office behind him, to take him away. "And? Anything good?"

"He gave us the mastermind of the operation in the United States – a man named Mohammed Asif. He also identified Wasseen Mahir, and Mashud Kafa. We believe those two have left the country, but we apprehended Asif today. He was apparently returning home after a long absence – he'll be facing a lot longer one now."

Paulson plastered a grin on his face. "Good for him. Anything else?"

"Just that he confirmed that the men who questioned him in Hermosillo had admitted that they belonged to Conway. Now if we could only find them and Conway…"

Paulson felt a surge of relief. He was in the clear. Asif's arrest was unfortunate, but Paulson knew that he could, and would, be replaced. Life would go on, and Paulson would still be the man they would come to, when they laid plans for the next attempt. "Yeah," he said, "he and his men seemed to have disappeared into thin air. It's frustrating as hell."

Tompkins nodded. "Yes, it is. But we'll find them, eventually."

Paulson nodded. _I doubt that_. "I sure as hell hope so. That's great news, sir." It was, he thought to himself – and even better news that he no longer had to fear what Charles Eppes might have told someone. Eppes couldn't have told anyone about him, because he didn't know. Mahir's conviction that he had used Paulson's name in front of Eppes must have been false. Paulson had been worried for nothing, had chased Eppes across the entire country of Mexico for nothing. Absolutely nothing. He smiled. "Anything else, sir?"

"No," returned Tompkins. "Just thought you might like to know that your efforts weren't in vain."

Paulson stood, and grinned at the irony of the statement. "Yes, thank you sir. I'll pass that on to Kirtland and Avilar." He turned and walked out of the office, down the hallway, still grinning, and shaking his head. Now, if he could just convince his Iranian friends that he deserved at least some of his money for his troubles, life would be good. Considering the fact that he was still in his position of power, and they would want his future cooperation, talking them into it shouldn't be too difficult. Yes, life was good.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Alan stood back, allowing the swarm of doctors to have access to his son. It was late afternoon, Charlie had gone into another aftershock moments ago, and the doctors converged to check him and consult with each other. Alan could feel a cold pit of fear in his stomach as he watched Charlie struggle weakly against the pain. He could feel instinctively that his son was losing the battle; Charlie was exhausted and pushing his limit even before the aftershock started, and Alan could not imagine how he was coming up with the strength to make it through this new round of agony.

Five minutes seemed like hours, but finally it was over. Charlie lay, dragging in air with huge shuddering gasps, his eyes shut, his body trembling. Alan began to step toward him, but one of the doctors stopped him. It was Dr. McIntire, who had been Charlie's neurologist during his psychotic break. "Mr. Eppes, we'd like to speak with you for a moment."

Alan looked at him, and McIntire and the rest of the doctors looked back at him, their faces grim. One of them indicated the door, and Alan turned and walked toward it numbly, feeling like he was going to face a firing squad.

Outside, the pain specialist from Bethesda spoke. "Mr. Eppes, we are highly concerned about your son's strength and his ability to weather this constant pain. We think his situation is deteriorating again. We would like to put him under for a while."

"I'm sure if you asked him, Charlie would agree to that," said Alan. He felt suddenly, a bit of relief. There was something they could do, after all.

Dr. McIntire replied. "We're not talking about simple sedation, Alan. We would like to put him in a medically induced coma, for at least two weeks, to allow the drug that he was given time to break down. It does carry some risk."

Alan stared at him, his relief dissipating like a wisp of smoke on a windy day. "Coma?"

The pain specialist nodded. "He needs some uninterrupted time to recover. He still has a large amount of the drug in his system, and we don't think that he will be able to endure the pain for the length of time it will take for the drug to break down. We are starting to see signs of stress on his cardiovascular system, and the rising fever is an indication that any healing has not only stopped, it is reversing. Because pain medication is ineffective, we believe this is the only way. We will talk to Charlie, but we wanted your approval first. We thought it actually might be good if you were there when we asked him. I'm not entirely sure he trusts anyone but you or your older son, at the moment."

Alan listened as the doctor outlined the risks, his mind reeling. After four long days of his son being in a coma, they were now asking to put Charlie back in that state for two weeks. Worst of all, the risks included failure to revive – they might not be able to bring him out of it again. They assured him that the risk was slight, but Alan knew as well as they did that they were facing something unknown here; that they could not really predict how Charlie would react, because they didn't completely understand the horrific drug that he had been injected with.

He realized suddenly that they had stopped talking, and were staring at him, waiting for a reply. He looked at them, with defeat in his face. "There is no other way?"

McIntire shook his head. "Believe me, Alan, if we thought there was, we would tell you. This is not simply for Charlie's well being. After hearing his story this afternoon, we realized that probably the only reason that he is here now is because of sedation he received at the border, at the clinic, and then at the hospital in Mexico. Those periods of sedation probably saved his life. We are hoping that what we are planning will do the same. In other words, this is not a choice - his life depends on it."

Alan gazed through the door at his son's face, pinched with pain. "All right," he said. His own voice sounded dead in his ears. "Let's talk to him." He straightened and walked into the room.

At the bedside he stopped for a moment, looking at the pale face, the dark curls, and tears of fear and frustration rushed to his eyes. Charlie's eyes began to open, and Alan hastily brushed the tears away, and sat, trying to compose himself. He took one of Charlie's thin hands in his, and Charlie's pain-filled gaze slowly came to rest on his face.

"Charlie," said Alan gently, "the doctors have a question for us. They think that you need a break from the pain so you can heal – they want to put you under for a while."

Charlie stared back at him, his brow furrowed. Something, the gravity of his father's voice, told him that he wasn't talking about mere sedation. He looked at the doctors standing behind Alan, then back at his father. He tried to talk, and managed a raspy whisper. "How long?"

Alan swallowed, and looked into his son's eyes. "Two weeks. They want to put you into a medically induced coma." He could see a flicker of fear in his son's eyes.

Charlie was silent for a long moment. "When?"

"As soon as possible," replied Alan.

McIntire stepped forward. "Charlie, it's important that you understand the risks of this procedure. We will give you sodium pentothal, a barbiturate. Because of its effects, we will need to put you on a respirator, which carries some risks of its own. Added to that, there is the increased threat of pneumonia, there can be difficulties with maintaining nutrition, and there may be possible residual weakness when you awaken. Finally, there is the risk that you may not awaken as planned. I hate to be blunt, but this is obviously a last resort. We need to find a way to combat the pain until the drugs leave your system."

Charlie closed his eyes; then nodded, the affirmation the barest of movements. When he opened them, Alan could see the fear again, accompanied by sadness. "Where's Don?"

"He went to Agent Garcia's funeral. He should be back soon – it must be over by now."

Charlie fell silent again, his eyes on his father's hand, holding his. After a long moment, he raised his eyes. "I'll do it," he whispered weakly, "on one condition."

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 41


	42. Chapter 42

**Chapter 42**

The late afternoon sun glinted off the cars in the Huntington Memorial parking lot. Millie walked ahead with surprisingly strong, quick strides, and Amita and Larry hurried to catch up. "But why are we here?" asked Amita, a little breathlessly.

Millie slowed a little and glanced backward at the two professors. She had actually called them at home after receiving the phone call from Alan; both of them had been off on leave after receiving news of Charlie's death. Neither of them looked well; it appeared that Larry hadn't slept since he had heard the news. His eyes were glassy and tired, and his face was covered in uncharacteristic stubble. And Amita – well, Amita didn't even look like herself, thought Millie. Her face was pale, devoid of makeup, hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. Her eyes were swollen and red from crying. She looked younger somehow, without the makeup, vulnerable, sad.

"I'm not sure," replied Millie. "They said they would explain when we got here." They were at the doors now, and pushed through them into the lobby. Millie headed straight for the elevators and punched in the floor number, and then they were out into the hallway. There Millie paused, looking around, and began to walk forward as she saw Alan moving toward them from the waiting area. He looked tired, older, strain apparent in his face, and as he stepped forward, Millie instinctively enveloped him in a hug.

He accepted it gratefully with closed eyes, partly to hide the tears that sprang to them from the well of emotion inside. "Please," he said, releasing Millie, "come this way – there's an office that they are letting us use."

He led them across the lobby to a small office, and they followed him inside, trying to be polite, to be patient, but Alan could see bewilderment and unasked questions in their eyes. They sat, and Alan leaned against a desk and faced them, just as the door opened, and Walter Merrick stepped into the room. He moved through them and stood beside Alan.

"Dr. Finch, professors," said Merrick, with a nod of greeting. "We've asked you to come here without explanation, and for that I apologize. I do intend to explain, but before I do, I need your commitment that anything you become aware of during the explanation, or subsequent conversations here today, you will keep to yourself. Due to the earlier events, much of the need for secrecy has passed, but it still behooves us to be careful. Can you comply with that request?"

They nodded, and a chorus of confused affirmatives followed. Merrick nodded, and took a deep breath. "I have news that you will undoubtedly be happy to hear. Dr. Eppes, Charlie, is alive."

Millie and Larry gasped, and they all stared at him, stunned. Amita felt her breath leave her, and suddenly her heartbeat seemed unnaturally loud. It pounded in her ears, and her head swam. Millie found her voice first. "Alive – and you let us think-,"

Merrick held up his hand. "For that, I sincerely apologize. It was for Charlie's safety. Until today, we had reason to fear that there were still people who wanted him dead. In fact, we still are taking the precaution of putting a guard on his room, but we think that the threat is now diminished."

There was a clamor of voices as the group of academics came to their senses; wanting to see him, to know how seriously he was injured, where he was and a plethora of other questions, causing Merrick to hold up his hand again.

"Please. Yes, you can see him – that is the purpose of this. Charlie asked for you specifically." He looked up as the door opened, and Dr. McIntire stepped into the room. "This is Dr. McIntire. He is going to explain a few things, including Charlie's condition, and how long you will be allowed to visit."

The group looked at McIntire expectantly, and Millie frowned at the gravity on his face. She glanced at Alan, and her apprehension deepened at the expression in his eyes.

Larry watched the doctor enter the room, feeling an odd swirl of emotions – elation that his friend was still alive fought with a sense of betrayal that he tried hard to suppress. He couldn't help but feel that he of all people should have been told, and he wondered if Megan knew. She had to know, he suspected, he knew she had gone to the border along with the rest of the team. Logically, of course, he understood why she couldn't have said anything, but emotionally, he couldn't help but feel a bit wounded. This was Charles, after all.

McIntire cleared his throat. "First, I need you to understand that Charlie is very ill." At that statement, the group went entirely still, and tension in the room increased palpably. McIntire continued. "Charlie was subjected to torture, and one of the methods used was an injection of chemicals, which produces repeated episodes of extreme pain. Although his physical injuries are not life-threatening, he has developed an infection, and the recurring pain is devastating. It is placing severe strain on his neurological and cardiovascular systems, and is not allowing him to heal. If we allow it to continue, the pain will literally kill him."

The group stared at him, stunned, and McIntire cleared his throat again, before delivering the most difficult news. "We are preparing to put him into a medically induced coma, to give him some freedom from the pain, and allow him to heal. It is risky, and is considered a last resort. There is a chance that he may not awaken. Before he would consent to it, Charlie has asked for a chance to talk to all of you."

Amita had not been aware of how much lighter her heart had been, until the doctor's last statement. It now crashed with a force that made her head spin, as joy and relief were replaced with sickening despair.

McIntire looked at them. "We will let you in to see him, one at a time. You need to be brief; he is very weak, and we need to start the procedure as soon as possible. Dr. Finch, if you will come with me-," he gestured toward the door, and Millie rose, with an uncertain glance at the rest of the group.

As the door closed behind them, Alan and Merrick stepped forward, and Alan placed his hands on Larry and Amita's shoulders. "Come on," he said gently, trying to swallow the pain that their defeated expressions generated. "We can wait outside – it's a little more comfortable."

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Millie stepped past the guard, her footsteps silent as she approached Charlie's bedside. She caught her breath at the sight of him; he was painfully thin, and she could see the strain in his face. She sank into a chair next to the bed, and his eyes opened, their normal spark dulled with pain.

"Millie," he whispered.

She blinked back the tears glittering in her eyes, and smiled reassuringly, laying her hand over his. "Charlie. I meant it when I said I was kidding about the James Bond thing."

She was trying to make him smile, but instead he looked miserable. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I know this is hard for you, for CalSci…,"

She kept her smile, but her eyes snapped a little. "What is that nonsense, Charlie? The only thing we care about is that you get better. That is all you need to focus on right now." Her expression softened a bit. "You know, James Bond always wins in the end. And take it from me; you're more stubborn than he is."

That won a smile from Charlie, just a ghost of one, a quirk of the lips, and Millie gazed at him for a moment, smiling in return. "I need to go now, so that Larry and Amita have some time with you. I'll see you again in a couple of weeks." She stood, still smiling as he nodded wearily, and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. The smile stayed on her face until she was out of the door, and as the tears came, she fumbled in her purse for a handkerchief.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don stepped wearily into the elevator and pushed the button. The funeral had been more tiring than he anticipated, and afterward, the group of agents had insisted on going to a local bar, to offer toasts to Agent Garcia. Don had tried to decline, but the L.A. and Albuquerque offices wouldn't hear of it. By the time he got out of there, he was exhausted, but when David dropped him off at the hospital, his step had quickened, as he thought of Charlie, and wondered how he was doing.

He had turned his cell phone off at the funeral, and he began to reach for it in his pocket, before he remembered that he couldn't use it in the hospital anyway. As the elevator doors opened, he stepped out, leaning on his cane; then paused in surprise, as he saw his father gathered with Merrick, Larry, Amita, and Millie in the waiting area. Millie and Amita were dabbing at their eyes, and the men looked somber. Don's heart thudded to his feet, and he limped forward awkwardly with the cane; his feet endowed with a life of their own.

Alan saw him approach, paled and wide-eyed, and moved forward to meet him. Don sent a startled look over his shoulder at the others; then transferred the look to Alan. "What's going on? Why are they here? Is Charlie okay?"

Alan guided him to a nearby sofa. "I left a message on your cell phone. Charlie's okay, at least relatively speaking. But he is why they are here." He looked gravely into Don's eyes. "Charlie's condition is deteriorating, and the doctors want to put him into a medically induced coma for a while, to give him relief from the pain, so he can heal. Charlie asked to see them before he went under."

Don realized that his stomach was clenched in a knot, and took a breath as it started to relax. "Well, okay, that's good, then, right? He can get a couple days of rest…"

Alan shook his head. "Not a couple of days, Donnie, a couple of weeks. It will take that long for the drug to break down. It's risky, a last resort, according to the doctors. There is the possibility of malnutrition, of pneumonia. There is a chance that he won't wake up."

Don stared, not sure if he'd heard right. "Won't…" His voice trailed off as the impact of what his father had just said hit him. '_How can he sit there and state that so calmly_?' he wondered, as panic rose in him. The conversation seemed irrational, surreal, like a bad nightmare that made no sense, but scared the hell out of a person anyway. With a sinking heart he saw the despair in Alan's eyes, and realized that this was anything but easy for his father to say. Over Alan's shoulder, he watched Larry disappear into the hallway with Merrick, headed toward Charlie's room. "Oh, God," he whispered, and then turned imploring eyes on his father. "They have to do this? Isn't there something else they can do?"

Alan's eyes glinted with moisture, and he ran a hand over them and shook his head, wearily. He looked up, and into his oldest son's eyes. "They're telling us no, Donnie. There is nothing else that will help him." He tried to bolster Don's hopes. "They are optimistic – they think the sedation that he received in Mexico saved his life. They're anticipating this will do the same, or they wouldn't be trying it. We have to stay positive, especially when we talk to Charlie. We can't let him go under thinking that he won't come out."

"When?" asked Don, his voice strained. "When are they doing this?"

"As soon as we all get a chance to see him. They've moved him into a room in the ICU. Larry's in there now, and then Amita will go. You can go in after her."

Don's mind rebelled at the words. Now. This was happening now. His eyes wandered over his father's shoulder, blankly, as he processed his father's statement, and fixed, despairingly, on Amita's slight figure, hunched on the sofa across the room.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

"Charles."

Charlie opened his eyes, and was greeted with the sight of Larry, standing tentatively next to his bed. His friend's hair was askew, and he needed a shave, but the sight of him brought a smile to Charlie's face. Larry had always had that effect on him; if he was stressed or anxious the mere sight of the older man, with his gentle, absent mannerisms, never failed to calm him. It seemed as though Larry Fleinhart operated in world of his own, governed by the age-old forces of physics, against which the paltry ineffectual laws of man paled by comparison, or at best had no meaning. It was soothing, somehow – the outlook that in spite of what seemed important, the world would go on in accordance with its own laws, long after they had gone. Larry embodied that permanence, that peace, for Charlie.

"Larry," he whispered; his smile a wisp of an expression, engulfed by pain.

Larry smiled back sadly in return, twisting his hands awkwardly. "I understand that you're planning to enter into an altered state of consciousness."

Charlie nodded; his eyes closed; then opened them again. "I wanted to say thank you - for everything – that you've done-," His words were punctuated by pauses for air.

Larry shook his head. "Now, Charles, you disappoint me. You're speaking as if you don't expect the outcome of this adventure to be optimal. When you are dealing with the mysteries of the inter-cranial realm, you need to factor in mind-set. You, with your research on cognitive emergence, should recognize that. You should look at this as an opportunity."

"An opportunity," repeated Charlie blankly.

"Oh, absolutely," replied Larry, his voice resonating with enthusiasm. "Who know what insights you will gain while you are exploring the vast reaches of your subconscious existence? What wonders will you bring back with you as you re-enter consciousness? You know, it bears similarities to space flight – there are risks, but oh, the potential rewards...,"

Charlie stared at him for a moment, and then the smile crept back to his face. "You never fail – to put things – into perspective."

Larry smiled at him, an angelic smile, with a hint of sadness lurking in the bright eyes. "And you've never failed to astound me, Charles. I certainly don't expect anything less from you, in this case. Take good notes; and we'll talk when you come out." He reached out and squeezed Charlie's hand.

Charlie smiled again. "I'll do that." The smile lingered as he watched his friend walk out of the room, and slowly faded, as a pervasive sense of loss took over. He hadn't gone under yet, and he felt lonely already. And he would impose that sense of loss, that loneliness on others, if he didn't make it through this. The thought engulfed him in a cloud of guilt. The toll that this was talking on his friends, his father…he grimaced as a wave of pain rolled through him. He was in constant pain now, and he knew that when the even more intense waves started, an aftershock was pending. He hoped fervently that it would hold off until after they put him out.

He was still staring sadly at the door, trying to breathe through the pain, when Amita walked in. Crept in, rather; she moved slowly, cautiously toward him, and sank into the chair next to him silently. Her face appeared younger without the makeup, and Charlie was reminded of the day they first met. She looked so sad, so tired, and Charlie's guilt deepened.

She reached out and covered his hand with hers. "Charlie," she began, and that was all she could manage; tears came flowing out in spite of her adamant promise to herself that she wouldn't cry. Grief rose in her throat, choking her. He looked so frail, so helpless, in such pain…

Charlie gazed at her despondently. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't mean – for you – to go through this."

"No," she said in a strangled voice, "_I'm_ sorry, I don't mean to cry – I just hate to see you in pain…" Her words trailed off as she struggled for control. She had to contain herself, damn it. Charlie didn't need this right now. She finally managed to throttle the flood of tears to a steady trickle, sniffed, and took in a shaky breath.

Charlie was still staring at her sadly. "I need you to know – if I come out of this –," he paused searching for a word, " – impaired, I don't – expect you to- stay. You need to- move on. It's okay."

She stared at him stunned, tears forgotten. "Charlie, how can you say that?" Her voice rose in indignation. "First of all, you are coming out of this just fine, do you understand? Second of all, I am not going anywhere. I learned that lesson the hard way. I am not leaving – you're stuck with me, so just get over it." She glared at him, her eyes flashing, and to her amazement and embarrassment, he grinned.

"Okay," he said weakly, "I've got it."

She stared at him a minute, then shook her head, and leaned forward, holding him gently, her face against his. "Oh, Charlie," she whispered, as tears started to her eyes again. She placed her hands on either side of his face and kissed his forehead gently; then her mouth found his in a soft caress of lips. She gazed into his eyes, her own glittering with tears, his filled with pain. "I'll be right here," she promised in a whisper. "I'll be waiting when you come out."

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 42


	43. Chapter 43

**Chapter 43**

Don stepped into the room in the ICU, silently, and looked at his brother. Charlie's eyes were closed, and Don stood still for a moment, just watching, fighting back the flood of emotions. They had come so far; he had thought Charlie was safe, only to find that it wasn't over after all. It wasn't fair; Charlie had fought so hard…Don felt as though they were in the river again, being swept away by the current, powerless to stop the tide of events. He moved forward and sank into the chair. He could see Charlie's chest rising and falling with exaggerated movements; his brother's breathing made labored by pain and fatigue. "Charlie," he said softly.

Charlie's eyes opened instantly and they gazed at each other. All of the unsaid words, the repressed feelings, swirled through the air around them, drawing an unseen curtain between them. It numbed the mind, froze the tongue. Don struggled for words. Keep it light, his father had said. Don't let Charlie know how worried we are. Stay positive. Frustration rose inside of him. There were so many things that needed to be said, and he was supposed to engage in small talk. He looked away, trying to marshal his thoughts, and missed the small movement of Charlie's hand, the indication that his brother wanted him to take it.

Charlie gazed at him, and lowered his hand. This seemed so awkward, he reflected sadly, but when hadn't things been awkward between them? He took in a breath. "I wanted to thank you," he said, "for coming after me. It was dangerous -,"

Don stared at him in disbelief. Charlie was thanking him for going in after him? _What does he take me for? Of course I would come after him. _"Charlie-," he began, protesting.

"- you were hurt – you shouldn't have been there -," continued Charlie. His voice was weak and breathy.

Don interrupted him, his voice tinged with incredulity. "Charlie, do you know how many kidnapping victims I've recovered in the course of my career? You don't think I would go after my own brother? Of course I would come after you."

Charlie blinked. There it was. He felt as though the words had slapped him in the face. His brother had just admitted it – Charlie was no more than any other victim to him. Don had come for him out of a sense of duty, no more than that. _Not love, duty._

'_What were you expecting?' _he chided himself, with self-disgust._ 'Why do you keep setting yourself up for disappointment, looking for something that isn't there?' _In spite of the harsh words in his head, he felt a wave of sadness, of longing so strong it was painful. His face twisted, and he closed his eyes. He couldn't take anymore. No more disappointment, no more pain. It was time. "Can you get Dad?" he whispered.

Don stared at him. He was being dismissed, he realized with a pang. This was it? "Charlie-,"

Charlie's face was still contorted with pain. "Please – just – get Dad."

Don stared for a second longer, his heart dropping. Charlie didn't want him there – he couldn't blame him, really. It was his fault his brother was there to begin with. "Yeah, okay." He rose; his shoulders slumped in defeat, and hobbled out of the door.

His father and the doctors were waiting a short distance down the hall. Don limped up to them and addressed Alan. "He's asking for you."

Alan nodded. "The doctors will come in with us," he began, and stopped, as Don limped past him. "Where are you going?"

"I'll be in the waiting area," said Don, his face full of misery. "I don't think he wants me there."

Alan stared after him, frowning, but the doctors and staff were already moving toward the room, and he turned and hurried to catch up. Dr. McIntire and the head of anesthesiology, Dr. Whitcomb, stopped him outside the door. Dr. Whitcomb spoke. "Go ahead, sit down and talk to him. We have a few things to set up. When we start the medication, it will take effect quickly, within two to three minutes. Don't be surprised if he says something strange, or starts repeating things as he goes under. That's normal."

Alan nodded at him, and cast another disturbed glance down the hall, catching a glimpse of Don as he entered the waiting room. '_He should be in here_,' he thought, '_no matter what Charlie said_.'

He moved into the room and sat next to Charlie, taking his son's hand. Charlie's eyes opened, and Alan could almost feel the wave of sadness and pain that emanated from them. "It's okay, son," he said softly. "You're going to get a chance to rest now."

Charlie's eyes drifted over his father's shoulder. "Where's Don?"

Alan stared at him. Don had been mistaken – Charlie did want him there. "He's in the waiting room – I'll get him."

Charlie's heart sank. His brother didn't even care enough to be there when he went under - during possibly his last conscious moments. His father was rising from the chair, and Charlie stopped him. "No, that's okay." His eyes closed in pain. "It doesn't matter."

'_It does matter,'_ thought Alan, his heart sinking as he sat again. At a moment like this, brothers should be together, inseparable. '_Where did I fail, Margaret? I know they're both looking for something in each other, I can sense it. Why can't they find it?' _If they couldn't draw together in a moment like this, he thought sadly, they never would.

Don limped past Millie, Amita and Larry, who stared at him as he went by. He stopped at the window, and paced awkwardly in front of it. This didn't feel right – it wasn't right that he was out here. In spite of the sense of despair, the hurt, he had a rising conviction he should be there with his brother, whether Charlie wanted him or not. The pacing grew quicker, more agitated. If Charlie didn't come out of this…hell, even if he did, this would hang over them – the fact that he wasn't there at such a critical moment. It wouldn't be the first time he had done something that Charlie disagreed with, and this was for his brother's own good. Damn it, he was going back in there, whether Charlie wanted him or not. He turned and limped hurriedly past the group of professors again, ignoring their puzzled looks.

The doctors had adjusted the monitors, and prepared the respirator. Dr. Whitcomb stood next to Charlie's IV, with the sodium pentothal in his hand. "We're ready to begin, Dr. Eppes. Are you ready?"

Charlie's gaze flickered toward him, and he nodded, wearily. "Yes."

Alan's grip tightened on his son's hand. He had a sudden flashback, a memory of the day they had taken Margaret off life support, and watched her fade away. The moment was eerie in its similarity. The recollection brought a surge of panic, and it was all he could do to keep his seat, to keep from leaping to his feet and yelling for them to stop. He realized that Charlie's eyes were on him, and he fought back tears.

"I love you," whispered Charlie, as Dr. Whitcomb added the medication to the IV.

"I love you too, son," replied Alan, trying hard to keep his voice steady. Charlie blinked as the drug entered his system, and his eyes drifted, beginning to lose focus. "One of us will be right here with you the whole time. Listen for us, feel for us – we'll be holding your hand, okay?"

"'Kay," slurred Charlie. He felt an odd floating sensation, and had to think hard to remember where he was, what was happening. His eyes roved over the room, and found his father. Dad. Dad was here. He frowned in confusion, and his eyes shifted, trying to see past Alan. "Where's Don?" he asked again.

Alan's heart contracted at the words, but as he opened his mouth to speak, Don's voice came from behind him. "I'm right here, Buddy." He limped around to the opposite side of the bed, and took Charlie's other hand.

Charlie's face relaxed, filled with relief. His gaze rested on Don, his eyes hazy from the medication. The drug stripped away any pretenses, any efforts to hide his expression, and the devotion in Charlie's eyes came through unsuppressed. "You came back," he whispered.

"Yeah, Buddy, I came back," said Don softly. The look of trust, of acceptance, in Charlie's eyes struck him with its intensity, almost like a blow, and he felt both relief and guilt at once. Relief that maybe, deep down, his brother hadn't given up on him, and guilt, knowing that he didn't deserve that trust. "You know I wouldn't leave you."

He stood there, watching with Alan, as the expression on Charlie's face died, his eyelids flickering, then closing, and he felt as though a piece of him was gone, fading with his brother's consciousness.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

There was brief moment of stillness; then the staff began to bustle around him. "Tube him," ordered Whitcomb, and Don released his brother's hand reluctantly, and stepped back, as Alan rose from his chair. They were ushered gently but firmly to the doorway, and stood together, watching as the staff began preparations, wheeling equipment in place – the respirator, the EEG monitor, a heart monitor. A technician began gastric lavage in preparation for a nasogastric tube, through which Charlie would be fed. Following that, they tilted Charlie's head, and another technician carefully intubated him, working skillfully with the blades and tubing, and then taped the tube to the side of his face. The nasogastric tube went into his nose, and then they began to place electrodes on Charlie's head and chest. The entire procedure took nearly forty-five minutes, during which they manipulated the limp body gently, but still there was the appearance that they were handling a corpse, something inanimate, and the bile rose in Alan's throat as he watched.

Dr. Whitcomb stepped over and spoke kindly. "I realize that this appears to be a bit much, perhaps a little shocking. The tube in his mouth is for the respirator, of course. The NG tube is his feeding tube. We will be taking constant EEG readings, to gauge the level of the coma – that's what the electrodes on his head are for. We are putting him into what is considered a deep coma – level 3. We will need to make constant modifications to the medication dosage to keep it there, and the EEG readings will let us know how we're doing with that. He will be assigned therapists – they will be performing stimulation exercises while he is under. You can help with that when you're here – talk to him, touch him, rub his arms and legs, pat his face. The therapists will also have special ways of stimulating his senses. They, or Dr. McIntire, will explain to you how that works. You are welcome to stay with him as much as you want."

Whitcomb stepped away to view the output from the electrodes, and the staff made final adjustments to the equipment. A technician raised the head of the bed slightly, and one by one, they disappeared, as their tasks were completed. Moments later, they were all gone, and Alan and Don stared at the lifeless figure in the bed, separated from them by a maze of tubes and wires, and a wall of unconsciousness, the room silent except for the hiss of the respirator.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

A week later, Don limped up the hallway to his brother's room. Merrick still had a guard posted at the door, but they were now local agents or LAPD. Link was gone, back to Denver, not that Don missed him. Tompkins and Merrick both believed that Charlie was safe now, but Merrick was reluctant to pull the guard, at least while Charlie was under, and Don was grateful for that. It was one less thing to worry about.

He paused at the door; he had expected his father to be there, but he saw only Amita, seated next to the bedside. She and Larry had spent hours there, spelling Don and Alan, allowing them to rest. Due to Charlie's need for stimulation, the normal ICU visiting rules had been waived, and Charlie was allowed visitors around the clock, although the number of visitors was limited. Amita usually came in the late afternoon and evening, after classes, and Larry insisted on staying at night, saying that the extra cot in the room was superior to his current mat. Where the mat resided was something he declined to tell them. The eccentric professor had been known to sleep in the CalSci steam tunnels, on his office floor and in his car, and Don could only guess at what he was currently calling home.

It had been a long week, and the start of it had been frightening. Two days into the coma, Charlie's fever had begun to spike, and the doctors had determined that he had developed pneumonia. They immediately switched the preventive antibiotic he was on to something stronger, and after two more anxiety-filled days, and yet other antibiotics, they finally began to see improvement. The fever had come down significantly, although not completely, and the doctors were keeping a close watch on him.

Almost as disturbing were the practices that the doctors called therapy. Some of it was benign, pleasant even – playing music, the applications of different scents, massages, gentle manipulation of Charlie's limbs. Twice they had removed the electrodes, and given Charlie a sponge bath, even, in spite of the tubing, washing his hair over a basin and giving him a shave. Much of it seemed grating, however, or even painful. Sharp claps with wood blocks or other loud noises were used to stimulate his hearing, and the EEG was checked for responses. Even worse were the pinches and pin pricks. Don found, after witnessing Charlie's torture; that he couldn't stand to watch that part of the therapy. He had too great of an urge to punch the therapist.

Through it all, Charlie lay lifeless, unresponsive, and the EEG readout remained unchanged for the most part. The doctors assured them that the lack of response was a good thing; it indicated that Charlie was still in a level 3 coma. The only blips that showed up on the readings were occasional faint disturbances lasting for a few minutes – evidence that the aftershocks were still present. They were improving, however; the episodes were down to two minutes now, and 36 hours apart. The doctors were encouraged by the blood work, also; which showed that the toxins were steadily breaking down.

Don stood in the doorway and watched Amita for a moment. He had at first been skeptical that she would continue to visit, but as the week wore on, he realized that she seemed committed. He grudgingly had to admit that she had spent nearly as many hours there as he had. He acknowledged, a little guiltily, that he had hardly spoken to her all week, although this was the first time he had been here alone with her – his father was usually present.

He limped through the doorway, and she looked up as he came in, the fingers of one hand intertwined with Charlie's, and smiled tentatively. "You're dad was here – he'll be back soon. He went to get a report from the doctor," she said, and Don nodded silently. She turned back to Charlie, and an awkward silence crept over the room.

Don's eyes shifted to his brother. Charlie lay there, still, pale, unmoving, wreathed in wires, seemingly an inanimate extension of the tubing. No change. Don wondered where inside that shell his brother was – was he thinking; dreaming? Could he hear them?

Amita's words broke into his thoughts. She spoke softly, but remained facing Charlie. "I know you're not crazy about Charlie and I being together."

Don looked at the back of her head and flushed a little; he supposed he_ had_ been a little obvious. He started to speak, but she turned to look at him, and cut him off. "I know I hurt him, last year. And I know it's not an excuse, but I was…confused, at the time. I've done a lot of thinking since then, and I know how I really feel about him now."

She turned back to Charlie, and Don stared at the back of her head. She could have been talking about me, he thought; when she made that last statement. The only difference between them was, even though he knew how he felt about Charlie, he hadn't managed to tell him. True, she had hurt him, but Don still hadn't stopped hurting him.

He wasn't sure what to say, so he just said simply, "I'm glad you're here," and realized, with a hint of amazement, that he meant it. She turned and flashed him a grateful smile, and he smiled too, for the first time in days.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

The sunlight had faded, and the room had gown dim. Alan stirred wearily in his chair on the far side of Charlie's bed. "We should turn on the light," he said, and Don rose and limped over to the switch. The light came on, illuminating the fatigue, the despair in Alan's face. It had been two weeks and two days since Charlie had been immersed in the coma, and the doctors had stopped the flow of sodium pentothal a little over 48 hours ago. The expectation was that Charlie would awaken within four to five hours, and Don and Alan had waited, filled with eagerness. Don's team and Millie, Larry and Amita had been there too, in the waiting room, everyone anticipating Charlie's return to consciousness. It hadn't come. It was two days later, and it still had not come.

The doctors told them not to worry, that sometimes it took a few hours longer, but after twenty-four hours had passed, Don could tell they were concerned. They had upped the level of physical stimulation, of noise, of smell, with no effect. The reading on the monitor refused to budge. The doctors murmured between themselves about the still-present infection, and the trouble they had with getting enough nutrition into Charlie – in the coma, he had not metabolized his food as efficiently as they would have liked.

Don could see the unspoken thought in their eyes – failure to revive. The words played a dirge-like litany in his brain. As each hour passed, hope dimmed – he could see it waning in Alan's eyes also, although it wasn't extinguished yet. Alan stubbornly refused to give up. He stood now, and stepped over to Charlie's bedside, gently stroking his son's arm.

Don felt a sudden rush of frustration, of anger at the situation, of helpless fury at Charlie's fate, as he listened to Alan gently imploring Charlie to wake up. "Charlie, wake up, son. Charlie. Charlie, it's time to get up for school."

His father's voice broke on the last sentence, and Don could stand it no longer. He jumped to his feet, approached the bed and grabbed Charlie's lifeless arms. "Charlie, wake up, damn it!" he yelled. "You can't do this – I need you – Dad needs you-,"

His father's voice broke into the black mist of anger, and he dimly heard Alan shouting his name, yelling at him to stop. He broke away, stumbling, limping heavily without the cane, and lurched out of the room, into the hallway, his chest heaving, leaning with one arm on the wall. A nurse hurried past him with a quick concerned glance, and he was vaguely aware of voices. More forms flitted past, but he kept his head down; his vision dimmed by tears, barely registering the activity around him.

Slowly, as he came to his senses, he realized that the excited voices were coming from his brother's room, and he lifted his head and stared, then suddenly broke into a limping run for the door. He tottered into the doorway, and caught the look of incredulous joy on his father's face. Alan rushed toward him, and grabbed his arms. "Donnie – you did it – you did it - he's awake…"

His father released his grip as Don pulled away, limping toward the bed. He heard a technician near the EEG monitors say something about normal brain waves, and another declare, "He's breathing on his own," then Dr. Whitcomb's quick instructions to remove the breathing tube.

Charlie's eyes were half-open - groggy and unfocused, but open, and the doctors were clustered around the monitors pointing and exchanging grins. Dr. Whitcomb slapped Don on the back with a wide smile. "Nice going. Does he always listen to you like that?"

A half smile finally crept to Don's face. "Nah," he said softly, his eyes on Charlie's. "Not as much as I'd like."

Alan smiled through his tears of relief. Even if Don didn't think so, he knew better. He watched as Charlie's eyes, still dull and unfocused, shifted toward the sound of his brother's voice. Oh, yes. He knew better.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 43


	44. Chapter 44

**Chapter 44**

Don stepped into the living room, and studied the thin figure on the sofa. It had been six weeks since Charlie had come out of the coma, and it had been two weeks since he had gotten home. He was pitifully weak when he woke, emaciated, barely able to move a muscle. It had taken a full twelve days to get the remnants of the pneumonia under control and a total of three weeks to get Charlie's strength built up enough to the point that he could walk the few steps to the bathroom; days of poking, prodding and physical therapy, of nutritional drinks that gradually morphed into solid food. It then took five more days of Charlie navigating on his own, up and down the hallway, before the doctors would consent to let him go home.

Going home came with several conditions, however. For a solid week, Charlie went back in every day for physical therapy and for sessions with the neurologists and with Dr. Michaels. Last week it had gone to every other day, and during the week ahead, he was scheduled to go in twice. He was still plagued with nightmares, and with aftershocks, although those seemed to be diminishing; an aftershock came on average once every two or three days.

Don had seen him weather one just yesterday; his brother had frozen in the act of walking through the dining room, and leaned on a chair. Don could tell by the death grip on the back of the chair, by the closed eyes, parted lips, and bowed head, that Charlie was having another attack. Mercifully, it was short – they now measured only fifteen seconds - but for those moments, Charlie was in such intense pain, that he could do nothing else but stop and breathe. For that reason, he was still not allowed to drive, and wouldn't be until the attacks were gone completely.

In addition to the aftershocks, Charlie was experiencing occasional migraines, and strange episodes where lights or sound, or both, seemed unnaturally, unbearably intense. The doctors were monitoring it all carefully, and seemed convinced that the symptoms would eventually subside.

In spite of the neurological symptoms, physically, Charlie seemed to be doing well, although he was still extremely thin, and seemed to care less about food. Alan had to connive, coerce and threaten him to get him to eat regularly, and Charlie would sit down and try, although his attempts to eat were half-hearted. Dr. Michaels had started Charlie on an SRI immediately, to ward off or at least diminish the chances of post-traumatic stress syndrome, and Charlie blamed the medicine for his lack of appetite. Don thought otherwise, but he held his tongue.

Mentally, his brother was an enigma. Charlie seemed to be doing remarkably well – too well almost, considering what he had been through, but both Alan and Don were concerned. Charlie had seemed to bounce back well for a few days after Los Padres, too, before the downward spiral of the post-traumatic stress started, and they were less than convinced by Charlie's seeming calm. There was a distance to Charlie that wasn't there before; he seemed to be composed, but unnamed emotions simmered in his eyes, surfacing sometimes, before they were carefully concealed.

That distance was no more apparent than when he was around Don. Outwardly, Charlie would smile and seem glad to see him, but there was a reserved air about him. Something indefinable was missing from his eyes – he had always had a spark in them when he was around Don – usually eagerness to please, sometimes anger when they argued, but there was always that undercurrent of emotion. It had been replaced by something else, something that looked like resignation. It had the effect of making Don even more uncertain around his brother. Any chances of telling Charlie about his revelations, of opening up about how he really felt about him, were becoming more improbable. The distance between them seemed to be increasing, instead of diminishing, and Don blamed himself.

Still, he tried. Don had plenty of time on his hands; he was off on leave dictated by Merrick. He was staying at the house; and back to his old habits after Los Padres, of hovering around his brother, loath to let Charlie out of his sight. The communication they had enjoyed after Charlie's recovery from his psychotic break wasn't there, however. They both tried to put on a front, to pretend they were comfortable and relaxed around each other, but each of them knew better. Deep down, they were strangers.

It reminded Don painfully of how awkward they had been when he first returned home, a few years ago. Inside, he was devastated by the reversal, and completely frustrated, but he had no clue of how to work his way out. For that, he needed Charlie's involvement, and Charlie was as remote as the peaks that surrounded Los Angeles.

Tonight, Charlie sat on the sofa, immersed in some papers that Amita had brought by for him to grade. Charlie had asked for them; he needed something to occupy his mind, he said, and Alan approved because Charlie could do that sitting down – it kept him out of the garage and off his feet. Don flicked the television on, and came and plunked down beside him, falling into the sofa a little to favor his leg. He was off the cane, and limping only slightly, but things like sitting down or squatting still bothered him a bit. He threw an arm over the back of the sofa, not quite touching the thin shoulders. "Hey, Chuck."

Charlie looked up and smiled at the casual greeting. "Hey," came the quiet response, and then the curly head went down, seemingly absorbed in the papers. An awkward silence settled, but Don didn't let it throw him. He sat where he was, watching the game, his jaw set stubbornly. How many nights had they sat together like this, in comfortable, companionable silence? Never mind that the comfort and companionship were gone – Don was going to sit there, damn it, until the feelings came back.

Charlie shot a glance at his brother out of the corner of his eye, and sighed. There was no question in his mind that he was glad that Don was there, and was spending a lot of time at home again. He knew that Don had also been with him in the hospital; he dimly remembered his brother holding his hand as he went under, and Don had been there constantly after he had awakened – he hadn't spoken much, and when he did, the conversation seemed forced. They hadn't really had many opportunities to talk privately; there was usually someone else in the room. Charlie did have to admit, though, that Don had spent many hours there.

Charlie was not going to tell himself that it meant anything significant as far as their relationship was concerned, however. Any remaining thoughts that this was anything other than Don's sense of duty were vanquished that day in the hospital, when Don had admitted that he had come after him just as he would for anyone else.

Now as Charlie stared at his papers, weeks later, the memory was as fresh as if it had just happened. He wouldn't kid himself any longer that their relationship would ever be anything more – it was too painful to keep hoping, only to have those hopes dashed. He would just have to lower his expectations, to take the attention as long as Don would be prepared to give it, knowing that in a few weeks the visits would lessen, and Don would be back to the things in his life that mattered to him the most.

This was good; Charlie tried to convince himself, as he flicked a look sideways once more at his brother. Don being here; taking in a game, and dinner. There was a point in time during his kidnapping when he thought Don was dead, that Charlie had thought he wouldn't even have this. For that matter, he hadn't been sure he would be sitting here himself. He could sense that Don was less than comfortable, but maybe they could get back to that point, where they at least felt at ease together, in time.

He rubbed his eyes, as the figures swam in front of them. He still got tired easily, and it had been a long day. He would just finish this last problem…_let's see, the second derivative of cosine, okay_….

Don started when he felt the weight on his shoulder, and a bemused grin came to his face as he realized that the weight was Charlie's head. His brother had fallen asleep in the middle of grading papers. The smile faded to something softer, more serious, but gentle, as he looked down at Charlie's unruly curls. A year ago he would have teasingly pushed his brother away and told him to go to bed, but now, with the lack of any meaningful contact between them on an emotional level, he left Charlie as he lay. This at least was something, Don thought. After the weeks of reserve, of the polite wall his brother had set up, Don welcomed the contact, even though it was unintentional.

He was unaware that Alan was standing frozen in the kitchen doorway behind him, dishcloth forgotten in his hand, relishing the sight of his two boys together. No one had felt their distance, their discomfort, in the last few weeks more than he had. Now he watched; his heart warmed by the sight of the older son looking down protectively at the younger, wishing that somehow Margaret could see them.

Don closed his eyes, and as he did, a sudden long-forgotten memory flashed in his mind. He and Charlie were in the backseat of their car, on a long trip with Mom and Dad. He must have been around ten, he mused, and Charlie five. His brother had fallen asleep, just like this, with his head on Don's shoulder. He frowned, as the memory played in his mind.

_Don pushed roughly at his brother's head, and Charlie woke, looking startled and groggy. "Get off me, you little dweeb!"_

_Margaret looked back angrily, and then spoke to his father. "Alan, pull over for a minute." Don's heart fell as his father complied, with a stern glance in the rearview mirror. He'd known he shouldn't have said that, but Charlie was on his last nerve these days._

_They were traveling through a small town, and when the car came to a stop alongside a curb, Margaret got out, commanding, "Step outside, young man." She bent forward as Don got out, in order to place her eyes on a direct level with his. "Where did you get that word?"_

_Don looked at his feet. "I heard some kid say it at the ballfield."_

"_Do you even know what it means?"_

_Don shrugged uncomfortably. "I dunno. Nerd, maybe?"_

_Margaret sighed. "Do you realize how much of that your brother gets in a day? The last person he needs it from is you. I don't ever want to hear that out of your mouth again, Donnie. Do you understand?"_

_He nodded, shamefaced, but with a bit of a scowl, that vanished in a cloud of guilt as he climbed back inside. Charlie was staring at him with a hurt, confused expression, all dark eyes and curls, with big fat tears threatening, glimmering on his lower lids. Don turned away and faced forward; mumbling, "Sorry," as the car started moving again._

_He glanced sideways after a moment, and saw that his brother's head was now bowed, and the tears were now two big dark blotches on Charlie's pants legs. Don sighed, and put a gentle hand on the other side of the curly head, guiding it back toward his shoulder. "C'mere." Charlie nestled against his upper arm without a word, and moments later, his brother was asleep…_

Don opened his eyes and stared blankly at the opposite wall, past the television set. How many times had he done that, he wondered? How many times had he pushed Charlie away, and he always came back, with that hopeful look – a look that Don used to disdain. Now that expression was gone, and Don didn't know how to get it back. He had pushed one time too many - this time by not saying what needed to be said… three simple words…and now it was too late.

The thought brought sudden grief, and a surge of barely contained tears. The feeling brought with it the fear that he would lose control on the spot, and he scrambled awkwardly off the sofa, desperate suddenly to get out, to get away. He headed for the front door without a word, without a backwards glance, leaving Charlie half awake, staring after him with a bewildered expression.

After a long moment, Charlie sighed, rose wearily, and trudged upstairs to bed.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

"_Get out of the van."_

_Charlie climbed out into the bright sunlight, blinking. Mahir and his men surrounded him, all bearing weapons. As Don climbed out after him, Charlie noticed that Tompkins was standing there, and so was Nathan Mansour._

_Two men pulled Don aside, with a gun to his head. In the distance, Charlie could see the skyline of L.A._

"_Charlie," said Tompkins, "we need you to decipher this code. If you don't, Mahir is threatening to detonate nuclear bombs in all of our major cities."_

_Charlie looked at him anxiously. "Why me?"_

_Mansour leered at him crazily. "Because you're marked."_

"_Leave him alone," Don growled, pulling against his captors hands._

_Tompkins shook his head sadly. "There is no one else. You're our last hope."_

_Mahir spoke coldly. "You have fifteen seconds. If you fail, the citizens of your country will pay, along with your brother."_

_Charlie looked in panic at the computer screen. "This is a multi-level code," he protested. "There's no way I can do this in fifteen seconds."_

"_Begin," commanded Mahir._

_Charlie tapped frantically at the keyboard. "The first level is Cyrillic-based, fifth duplicate, eleventh triplicate, seventeenth duplicate – it's decoding."_

"_You have five more seconds," said Mahir._

"_It's not enough time!" yelled Charlie, still frantically typing. "The second is a binary base of seven repeating combinations in conjunction with…"_

"_You are incorrect," said Mahir._

"_No, that's right!" protested Charlie._

"_It matters not, you are out of time," replied Mahir, and he spoke into a cell phone. "Detonate."_

"_NO!" screamed Charlie, as Mansour laughed crazily. There was a blinding flash of light, followed by a distant boom, and the L.A. landscape seemed to deflate, then surge upward in a huge mushroom cloud. Charlie was dimly aware of Tompkins' groan; his mind reeling with the thought that his father, Amita, Larry, CalSci – everything – was gone._

_Mahir's words jerked him back to awareness. "Kill him," he said, and Charlie turned in horror to see one of the men fire point-blank into Don's chest. _

"_NO! Don!" Charlie screamed again, as Don collapsed on the ground, eyes staring, his face frozen with shock and pain. Charlie tore away from Mansour, who was trying to cut his shirt away, and caromed off the side of the van, then stumbled forward and fell on his knees next to Don. Blood was pouring out of Don's chest, so much blood, and Charlie rocked on his knees, sobbing; trying frantically to put pressure on his brother's chest. _

"_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I couldn't do it– Don, don't leave me, please…"_

"Charlie, Charlie! Wake up!" Alan shook Charlie slightly. He had heard Charlie's voice in the hallway, and had come out of his room just in time to see his son bounce off the hallway wall, stumble forward, and fall to his knees, sobbing.

Charlie stared at him dazedly, tears streaming down his face; then his eyes moved, taking in the hallway. "Where's Don?" he asked brokenly.

"I'm here, Charlie, I'm right here," came a quiet voice behind them, and Alan breathed a sigh of relief. Don hadn't come back in before they had gone to bed, although Alan had waited up for him for a long while. The hallway light flickered on, and Alan saw Don standing there, still fully dressed.

Charlie staggered to his feet, and stood swaying, a rail-like figure draped in a T-shirt and boxers. He looked as though he were going to hug Don; he took a step forward, but stopped, and they just stared at each other for a moment, one set of dark eyes locked on the other.

Alan spoke, breaking the silence. "Charlie, did you take any sleeping pills?" Charlie had been having nightmares, but this was the first time he had walked in his sleep since last summer. That time, he had taken sleeping pills, which had interacted with his other medications.

Alan's words broke Charlie's gaze. He blinked and turned his head slowly toward his father. "I – no."

He rubbed his face, and Alan put an arm around him. "Come on; let's get you back into bed." He guided Charlie gently into his room, and when he came back out, Don's door was closed. Alan stood in the hallway for a minute, wishing mightily that he knew what was going on between his sons, then sighed and shook his head, and turned out the light.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 44


	45. Chapter 45

**Chapter 45**

Alan dished up egg casserole to the hunched figures in front of him. Both of his sons looked subdued and exhausted. They picked up forks and began eating silently, and Alan put some casserole on his own plate, and sat with a look at his sons, his eyes sharp. "So, did either of you get any sleep last night?"

They glanced at each other, tentatively, and both mumbled something undecipherable though their eggs. Charlie laid down his fork and leaned back in his chair, hiding behind his coffee mug. Alan looked sharply at his plate. "Don't think you're done with that, young man. Mm -," he said, as he took a bite himself, and stood at the same time. "I forgot the fruit."

He stepped around them, came back to the table with dishes from the refrigerator, and set them down with a flourish. "Fresh cantaloupe."

Charlie took one sniff, and turned green. He stood and stumbled out of the kitchen, headed for the bathroom, and Don got up, picked up his and Charlie's portions with a look of distaste, and set the dishes back in the refrigerator. He looked at Alan's dish. "Dad, you'd better put that where Charlie can't smell it."

Alan was staring after Charlie, and turned to look at him, baffled. "What's wrong with it?"

Don was headed toward the kitchen door. "Nothing. We just had to spend a night on a truck loaded with melons in Mexico, and I don't think either of us will be eating it anytime soon." _Make that in our lifetimes. _He pushed open the back door. "Tell me when you're done and I'll come back in." The door closed with bang.

Alan sighed and shook his head, rising. The trash can was full of melon rinds, and he dumped his dish of fruit, grabbed the trash bag and brought it outside. Don was leaning, one arm on the garage, his head down. He straightened as Alan came out, but Alan had noticed the posture, the look on his son's face. "Are you all right, son?" he asked quietly.

Don looked up at him, and Alan could see the pain in his eyes. "I don't know," Don said hoarsely. "I think I'm kind of screwed up. I'm going to try to get into Bradford today."

He put his head down, and pushed past Alan into the house. Alan watched him go, his heart in his throat. His oldest normally buried his emotions and thought of therapy as a sign of weakness. For him to admit that he felt he had to go was disturbing, in fact downright frightening. For Alan, who had been afraid for weeks for Charlie, it seemed like the last straw- he felt as if he were drowning. He wasn't sure he was strong enough himself, to hold both of them up. He put the bag in the trash can, closed it, and trudged wearily into the house.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Charlie stared out of his bedroom window as Don left the house. His brother had said something about an appointment with Bradford, and that he'd being going to back to his apartment tonight. It was starting already – Don was beginning to pull away, just as he did after Los Padres. Charlie couldn't blame him, really. It had to get old, always having to bail him out – dealing with the stress, the danger, the recuperation afterward. He had to admit, he had been quite the liability during the last year. No wonder Don wanted out.

He just wished it wasn't happening so soon – it had felt so good to have him around, even if things weren't quite comfortable between them yet. It seemed that they were farther apart than ever – they had been developing a relationship of sorts before Los Padres, but, except for the brief period after Charlie's psychotic break when they seemed to be finally clicking, they had drifted apart again. And now, it seemed even worse. Charlie had been doing his best to tamp down on the horrible memories of his kidnapping, to seem self-sufficient, not needy, so Don wouldn't feel pressured. Maybe, because of that, Don thought he was doing well enough that he could bow out again, return to his life. His brother could spend more time with Liz; get back on some kind of schedule at work…It was time, he knew with regret. Time to let go.

He watched as the SUV pulled away, then let the curtain fall and crawled onto his bed, hugging his knees to his chest, trying to ignore the hole in his heart.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Bradford sat unmoving, and eyed his patient speculatively. Eppes looked bad, he had to admit; it looked like the man was cracking around the edges, and he wasn't doing a very good job of hiding it. That in itself was unusual. Bradford watched him for a moment; then spoke. "I read the reports, just so you know. I understand that it was rough. Why don't you tell me what you want to talk about first?"

Don shrugged miserably. He had no idea where to start. _Let's see, I can tell him how I let the terrorists completely surprise me, and take my brother. Or, I can tell him how I made a half-assed attempt to resist, instead of fighting harder. Or, I can tell him how I delivered the final blow, and let Charlie go to what we both thought was his death, without hearing the one thing he wanted to hear from me. And don't forget about all the times since then, when I could have said it, but because I'm obviously screwed-up; I didn't…_

"It was pretty bad." Bradford's words came out as a statement.

"Yeah." Don swallowed, as the echoes of the screams reverberated in his head. He looked at Bradford, then away. "I really messed up."

Bradford raised his eyebrows. "Funny. I don't recall seeing that anywhere in the reports. And just how do you think you messed up?"

Don's face twisted in self-disgust. "Well, obviously, they took him on my watch. I was in charge of his security detail. And when they did take us, I should have done something more, fought them, something…"

"There didn't seem to be much opportunity for that. You couldn't really resist without compromising Charlie in some way. You had to make sure they didn't know who you were, so they couldn't use you to get to him. You had more to think about than just yourselves there, and you handled it the only way you could – both of you. Admirably, in fact."

Don rubbed his face and shook his head. "I wasn't referring to that anyway. I was talking about our relationship – me and Charlie."

Bradford was surprised into a split second of silence. He had a sudden premonition that this wasn't going to be the session he had anticipated. "Okay, so I'll ask the question again – how do you think you messed up?"

Don snorted and shook his head sadly. "How didn't I mess up is more the question. I've been screwing it up our whole lives." He paused, looking down, and when he looked up, Bradford had to blink to cover his reaction at what he saw in Don's eyes – the raw agony was unexpected, and for once, Don wasn't hiding his emotions. Not at all.

"You're right, it was bad. When we were in the warehouse, they – took him away from us, into another room. When they were done, when he'd had all he could…take, they'd bring him back in. He was in such pain…" Don closed his eyes and rubbed at them with a thumb and forefinger, then continued in a dull heavy voice.

"There was a camera in the warehouse, and a microphone in the racks behind us. Charlie heard them talking – they didn't realize that he could understand Farsi, and he told us. So we had to watch what we did, and what we said. We tried to whisper, to turn our backs to the camera, and of course, I had to act like Dan Caldwell. It was hard to talk…" He trailed off and stared at the floor, his eyes unfocused, swimming in the black memories for a moment, before going on.

"After the second time they took him, Charlie was in pretty bad shape. I think he realized that he didn't have much left, that the next session might be his last. He -," Don's voice broke on the word; it came out almost as a sob. He was really struggling to keep it together now, Bradford noted, and he could feel the weight of Don's next words even before he said them.

"He told me he loved me, and I realized he was – saying good-bye." Don voice was shaking with the effort that it took to hold in the tears. "He had this look on his face – like he was waiting for me to say something – he looked so hopeful, you know? And all I could think of was that it was the end, and I wouldn't see him anymore – and, I just froze. I don't even know what I said – I think I said 'no.' And then they came to take him, and we couldn't talk anymore." Tears got the better of him; he hung his head for a moment and ran a hand over his face, taking in a deep breath. Bradford sat utterly still, rendered motionless by the raw pain in the room.

Don began talking again in a low voice. "It was then I realized that he was waiting for me to say it back, and – and it was too late." His voice trembled. "And I realized something else – I had never told him that, not once, in thirty-two years, had I ever told him that I loved him. And when he needed to hear it most – I failed. Completely." He fell silent, and wiped at the tears again.

After a silence, Bradford cleared his throat. "It wasn't that long ago, last year sometime, that we were talking through how you felt about him, and we weren't sure exactly what you felt. In fact, I think at one point I accused you of hating him, which you denied, but we never did really clarify what you actually thought about him. If you didn't feel as strongly about him as he does about you – if what you feel isn't love, it's understandable that it didn't come to your mind right away when he said it. You were under a lot of stress-,"

Don shook his head vehemently, and his next words came out in a rush. "That's the thing. I realized at that moment that I do love him. And in fact, even though I tried to bury it as a kid, I always did. He always seemed so – self-sufficient, he was so intelligent – he had all of my parent's attention. I figured that he didn't really need me; that I wasn't necessary in his life. So I pretended I didn't need him either – it was some kind of warped self-defense mechanism, I guess. After a while, I think I even convinced myself that I didn't need him or love him, but deep inside I must have known better. It took this, and Los Padres, to make me recognize it – I love him, and I always have."

Bradford realized that his jaw had dropped, and he closed his mouth. "That," he said, staring at Don, "is the most profound thing you that have ever said to me. Maybe to anyone."

Don looked at him; then shook his head with a hint of sadness, of disgust. "A lot of good it did me. Not only did I not tell him then when he needed it most -," he broke off and looked up at the ceiling in agony. "God, his face – when he realized that I wasn't going to say it - the look on his face…and then, do you know what he said? 'That's okay – you don't have to say it.' I think he knew it would bother me later, after he was gone, and he was letting me know he forgave me. Even after I hurt him worse than any of the torture he was getting, he was thinking about how I would feel later…"

He ran a hand over his eyes again, and looked down. "That's when it hit me; that I'd never told him. He said the same thing to me that day we talked in the park. We were going through those questions you gave us – the one where he said he thought he loved me more than I loved him – anyway, he told me that day that I didn't have to say it – that he knew how I felt by what I had done for him. I guess I thought he did know, but when he looked at me that way in the warehouse, I realized that he wasn't sure after all…"

Silence fell for a moment; then Bradford cleared his throat. "Well, fortunately for both of you, that wasn't the end. You've had some opportunities since then to talk – what did he have to say about it?"

Don looked at him, his face haggard. "That's the worst part," he said, almost in a whisper. "We haven't talked about it. After all that, I still haven't told him."

He looked at Bradford in despair. "There's something really wrong with me. There have been a few times after that, when I knew I should have cleared the air, I should have told him, but I just can't get it out. I must be turning into some kind emotionless – I don't know – sociopath… or something…,"

In spite of Don's pain, Bradford smiled. "You certainly aren't a sociopath, and this is more emotion than I've ever seen out of you, in all your sessions combined. Trust me; I know from personal experience that those three words are the ones that we take most for granted, and can be the hardest to say. My marriage broke up for some of those reasons. We just need to figure out why it's so hard for you, and you can take some steps to make it easier."

Don shook his head, miserably. "I don't know why it's so hard."

Bradford regarded him. "Part of it, I'm sure, is the profession you're in. Cops, law enforcement – they need to be tough guys, bury their emotion. It isn't macho to say you love someone, especially another man, even if it is a family member. Would you say that's part of it?"

Don shrugged. "Yeah, it's uncomfortable, sure…"

"But that's not all of it."

Don shook his head.

"You hit on a big part of it, you realize, when you talked about how you suppressed your feelings for him all of those years," Bradford continued, gently. "You did it so well; you even buried it consciously from yourself. That's a tough thing to break, especially after thirty-two years."

"Yeah, but now that I know I'm doing it, I should be able to stop it," Don protested.

"That's a good point," said Bradford. "So there's something else." He looked at Don with a gleam in his eye. This conversation had the potential to be life-changing. "Do you have any memories of yourselves as children, how you interacted?"

Don snorted. "Yeah, we interacted as little as possible." He grew thoughtful for a minute. "Actually, one came back to me last night. I remembered this time when Charlie and I were in the back seat of a car on a trip, and he fell asleep, and leaned against me. I got annoyed and pushed him away. My mom made my dad pull over and she lectured me, and then when I got back in the car, he was looking at me with these big tears in his eyes…I felt rotten, and so I pulled him over so he could lean against me again, and he fell asleep." He looked at Bradford. "It really hit home, when I remembered it, but I don't know why. I actually had to leave the house for a while, go for a walk…Does that mean something?"

"What do you think?"

Don looked back at him, at a loss. "I guess it must, the way it made me feel, but – hell, I don't know-,"

Bradford suddenly changed the subject. "What have we been working on in here, with respect to your team?"

Don stared at him, perplexed. "My control issues. You told me I have to let them do their own thing more – that their successes reflect on me."

"And how has that been working out?"

"Good," Don admitted. "We're working together better than we ever have, and I'm less stressed, so I make better decisions. It made me a better leader."

"Okay, so you had control issues with respect to your team. We've also talked about your need to control what Charlie works on."

"Yeah," Don admitted. He looked up with an expression of dawning comprehension.

Bradford continued. "Think about it. Consider the story you just told me. You were willing to let your brother lay against you in the car, but only on your terms. When _he_ initiated the action, it was unacceptable. You had to control the situation."

He watched as Don pondered that thought and continued. "Many older siblings view their younger ones as threats, as competition. You have to admit, Charlie, with his exceptional mind, was more scary than most. You, by nature, have a strong need to control your environment, and Charlie was a threat to that. You couldn't compete with him on an intellectual level, but you could outfox him on an emotional one. By using his feelings for you, you could control his actions. Dole out a little affection here, withhold it there, and instead of a threat, you had a compliant little brother. You were in charge. You do the same thing even now, when you give him assignments. You call the shots."

Don stared at him, looking ill. "That's warped – it's manipulation-,"

"Sure it is," agreed Bradford, affably. "But it's perfectly normal – we all do it to some extent, and it's very common among family members. Your situation, with Charlie's genius, was extreme. Your reaction was very understandable – what's regrettable is that over the years, you lost your ability to manage it, and eventually let it rule you without your conscious knowledge. When you were young, you probably didn't even realize you were doing it, or why. Then you were both separated for a while, and it wasn't an issue. Once you were back together again, you were working together – in an atmosphere where you both recognized that you had to remain professional, businesslike. Not an atmosphere that is conducive to baring and dealing with your feelings for each other. These recent events, terrible as they were, were a catalyst – they've brought your relationship to the forefront. The question you need to ask yourself is, now that you know all this, what are you going to do about it?"

Don shook his head with chagrin. "I think maybe it's too late. He's shut me off – he hardly talks to me, he doesn't look at me -,"

Bradford spoke quietly. "It may very well be too late. But you won't know that if you don't try." He paused for a moment, taking in the despair in Don's face. "You realize, for anyone who is not sure about the other person's intentions, it's difficult to say those three words. When you do, you put yourself completely at the mercy of the other person. As soon as those words leave your lips, the other person has the power. They can respond back in kind, or they can reject you. It's a scary thing, especially to someone who feels the need to be in control as strongly as you do. What you need to ask yourself is, are you ready, after all these years, to let him take that control?"

Don looked back at him, resolution in his face. Charlie had allowed him that control; had endured Don's rebuffs time and time again, over the years, and had never given up on him. He realized now the strength of character that his brother had displayed; he had made himself vulnerable by choice, repeatedly bearing the pain of rejection. Whether Don was ready to let him take control or not, whether Charlie would reject him or not, wasn't an issue anymore. He owed his brother this. "Yes."

"You realize; you very likely have hurt him pretty badly. You may not get the response you want. You need to be prepared to deal with that. And you need to pick the right time to say it. You can't just blurt it out at an inappropriate time, at best it will be awkward, and at worst you will be not be believable." Bradford smiled wryly. "I found that out with my ex-wife. Take your time, figure out how you feel about this, exactly what you want to say, and pick a time that's significant in some way – even if it's just a quiet moment."

Don was already on his feet, and Bradford could see the beginnings of hope in his eyes. "Yeah," Don said, "okay. I – thank you. Thanks a lot."

Don was out the door before Bradford could respond, and as it swung shut, Bradford smiled. Sometimes, he thought; if you're lucky, life gives you a second chance.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Alan knocked lightly on the door, and pushed it open slightly. It was early evening, and the April sunlight was beginning to wane, but Charlie's room was nearly dark, and had been all day, the blinds drawn against the light. Charlie was still where Alan had last seen him, curled up on his side on the bed. "Charlie," he said softly, and moving toward the bed, sat gently on the side, and placed a hand on his son's arm.

Charlie laid facing away from him. "Yeah."

"Do you think you want to eat something?"

"No, I think I'm getting a migraine," Charlie lied. He stared at the tiny slit of light that peeked in between the shade and the window frame, and waited for his father to leave.

Alan didn't move, however. After a moment, he asked, "How have your sessions with Dr. Michaels been going?"

Charlie moved his shoulder in a barely perceptible shrug. "We haven't been talking about much – just doing relaxation exercises. The SRI takes a few weeks to kick in. He didn't want to start talking about what happened until it had a chance to start working."

"It's been a few weeks," Alan reminded him, looking at the back of the dark head.

"We're supposed to start talking about it tomorrow," said Charlie. His voice was flat, dismissive. "I'm really tired."

Alan rose. "Did you take something for the migraine?"

"Yeah."

Alan paused at the door. "All right, son. Let me know if you need anything." He stepped out quietly, frowning.

Charlie continued to stare blankly at the thin spear of light. Tomorrow, he would get up, and do everything he was supposed to do. Eat, exercise, go to appointments, start the rest of his life. He just needed one day – one day to mourn. It was hard to let hope die - the hope that one day he and his brother would be more than just – people who coexisted. It was harder than he realized it would be. So today, he would say good-bye; he owed himself that, and tomorrow he would somehow begin to pick up the pieces, and start again.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 45


	46. Chapter 46

_A/N – Thanks to Magister Equitum for her beta and advice on the psychological terms in the next two chapters._

**Chapter 46**

"You ready, Charlie?" Alan asked, as he strode toward the dining room, looking for his car keys.

Charlie slipped a shoe on his foot. "Almost." He looked up as the front door opened, and fought down the jolt of surprise, composing his face carefully. "Don." Charlie had convinced himself yesterday that his brother wasn't going to be back anytime soon, yet here he was. _'It doesn't mean anything,_' he told himself. '_Get that idea out of your head._'

"Hey, Chuck," said Don. He was smiling tentatively, and it faded as he saw Alan's keys dangling from his hand. "Oh, you guys are on your way out."

"Yeah, I've got some appointments with the neurologists, and Michaels," said Charlie. He felt stiff, odd suddenly, around his brother. His cell phone rang, and he used it as excuse to escape, stepping into the dining room to answer it.

Don's eyes followed him. "How's he doing?"

Alan shrugged. "A lot better than yesterday. He lay on his bed the whole day, wouldn't eat. He said he had a migraine."

Don looked at him. "You don't sound convinced."

"I wasn't yesterday, but maybe he did," said Alan. "This morning, he got up, went for a walk – just down the block and back, but he went; then he ate breakfast, and he got ready to go." His eyes rested on Charlie's back, visible through the entrance to the dining room. "He's supposed to start talking with Michaels today about what happened."

Don frowned. "He hasn't been?"

"No, I guess Michaels has been working on relaxation techniques or something, waiting for Charlie's medication to kick in. Charlie might be in for a rough one today." He glanced at Don. "How was your session?"

"Good," said Don, taking a deep breath, his eyes on Charlie, who had snapped his phone shut, and was standing, motionless. "Good."

Alan could see the change in Don's demeanor, his expression – there was still tension there, but now there was something else with it – a sense of purpose, of hope. Alan's eyes flickered to Charlie, who was walking slowly out of the dining room, with an odd look on his face.

Charlie looked at both of them. "That was Tompkins - they want me in Washington next week."

"What?!" Alan exploded furiously. "Tell him forget it. You're still recuperating. In fact, give me the phone and I'll tell him. I'd like to give him a piece of my mind."

Charlie was trying to break in on his father's tirade. "Dad – Dad – calm down." Alan stared at him, anger percolating in his eyes, and Don was scowling. Charlie looked at both of them, with the strange expression still on his face.

"They want to give me the Medal of Freedom." There was sudden silence, and Charlie watched as their mouths dropped open. "It's going to be a private ceremony, but you're invited, if you want to come."

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Charlie knocked, and slipped through the door, as Michaels waved him in. "Come in, Charlie." Charlie crossed and shook Michaels' hand, then sat in his usual chair, an overstuffed leather armchair with high arms, directly across from Michaels' desk.

Michaels' cool gray eyes appraised him. His patient didn't look like he was putting on weight, which was a bit disturbing, but other than that he seemed composed. Serious dark eyes looked back, and Michaels studied them for a minute. Outwardly calm, maybe too calm. There was an air of resignation about his patient since his kidnapping, as if Charlie were patiently humoring him by being there. Humoring me; wondered Michaels, or humoring everyone?

"Today we were supposed to start talking about what you went through," Michaels said. "Are you ready for that?"

Charlie shrugged. "Yes." His tone was noncommittal.

"Is there something you would like to discuss first?"

Charlie looked away, disinterestedly. "Not in particular."

Michaels frowned. Charlie normally was actively involved in whatever they decided to discuss. His indifference was even more disturbing, considering the subject matter. "I read the reports," said Michaels quietly. "It appears to me to be a miracle that you survived."

That generated at least a bit of interest. "You have clearance for those?"

Michaels smiled. "You're not my only patient. Some of them have clearances higher than yours."

Charlie stared back at him for a moment, digesting that fact, and Michaels prodded him a bit. "How are the nightmares?"

Charlie sighed. "Still there. I ended up in the hallway the other night with one of them."

"Really? Where were you headed?"

Charlie frowned. "I'm not sure. I think I was trying to find my brother."

"Mmm. How is Don?"

Charlie looked away. "Good. He's good." He looked back at Michaels, as if challenging him to disagree.

Michaels ignored the look, although he was keenly aware that there was more to that subject than Charlie was letting on. "You haven't been taking any other medications?"

"No. No sleeping pills, if that's what you mean. Just the SRI."

"How's the anxiety level? Any panic attacks?"

"I've felt some coming on, from time to time," admitted Charlie. "But I use the imaging and relaxation techniques we've been practicing, and it seems to head them off. They're getting a little better lately."

"How's the pain?"

Charlie looked down at his feet. "Still there. I still get aftershocks, but they're three days apart now, and only last about fifteen seconds. I get migraines once in a while. It's bearable. I met with the neurologists before I came here. They seem pretty optimistic that the aftershocks will go away entirely." He looked up again, his eyes wandering around the room.

"You're not eating very well yet."

Shrug. "I'm not very hungry."

Michaels sent him a knowing look. "So, now that we have the small talk out of the way, let me ask again, is there something you would like to discuss concerning what happened to you?"

Emotion flared in the dark eyes, then vanished, carefully concealed. Charlie looked away again, for all appearances, bored. He reminded Michaels of a seemingly extinct volcano; grown over with vegetation, peaceful, green, but with a simmering core, ready to – what? Explode? Implode? Self-destruct?

Charlie's voice was cool. "I don't much see the point of reliving it. I'm controlling the anxiety; I'm getting better."

Michaels pursed his lips. "And perhaps I would agree with you, if I hadn't read the reports. All right then; I will pick the topic; if for nothing other than to satisfy my own curiosity. How did you find the will to keep from talking?"

Charlie smiled wanly. "Actually, I relied heavily on the visualization and relaxation techniques you taught me. I picked out an image, and just clung to it."

Michaels nodded thoughtfully. "I see. It must have been quite an image. Do you mind me asking what it was?"

The first flash of real emotion crossed Charlie's face, and he seemed suddenly fascinated with the leg of the desk. "It was – Don. Don's face."

"Any particular frame of reference – an experience to go along with the face?"

Real pain was behind the dark eyes now, and Charlie looked at Michaels. "Yeah, it was how he looked that day we talked at the park. He was smiling…" Something shimmered in his eyes, and Charlie looked away. "It was one of the best days of my life."

"Yes, we talked about that," murmured Michaels. "You seemed to think that day was an anomaly; that he had grown more distant. How about now?"

Charlie smiled sadly. "An anomaly. Yes, that would be a good description. It's still the same. He's supportive, sure. We just don't get each other, and that's not going to change." He looked at Michaels. "Don't get me wrong – I'm grateful. He came after me in Mexico – saved my life, more than once, at a great risk to himself. He's a very brave and good man. He just doesn't seem to need a – closer relationship. At least not with me."

Michaels studied him. That was where some of the sadness, the resignation, was coming from, he thought. "So, knowing that, why did you pick him as a visualization object?"

Charlie looked down. "I don't know," he said quietly. "Maybe at that time I still had some hope left …." He straightened, and looked up. "Anyway, it didn't matter what I focused on – I couldn't talk – there were millions of lives at stake."

"Yes," murmured Michaels, "I wanted to talk to you about that. You made it through two rounds of conventional torture techniques, and two rounds of the injection. Each of those, I understand, was more than most people could take. It wasn't until your third injection that you finally gave in. What changed?"

Charlie looked at him derisively. "What, that wasn't good enough?"

'O_uch, that was defensive_,' thought Michaels. '_I hit a nerve there_.' "It just seems odd that you showed such strength; then suddenly gave in. I read here that you talked to Tompkins before the third injection, the one that Conway's men gave you in the hospital in Hermosillo. Tompkins told you that they had apprehended the terror cells, and confiscated the bombs."

Charlie shrugged. "Yes. That was a big part of why I talked. It was true; I gave Conway's men information that Tompkins was suspicious of him, but I figured, if Tompkins was on to him, Conway was done anyway. Even if he got away, he would never work in a position of power again. And once I knew that they had apprehended the terror cells, that part of the risk was gone – no one's life was at stake anymore."

"No one's but yours. You knew they would kill you once they had the information."

Charlie averted his eyes. "Yes."

"And you don't think your own life was worth saving?"

Charlie looked up at him, his eyes blazing. "You have no idea what it was like. The pain was – indescribable."

"So, it wasn't so bad that you couldn't resist it when others were involved, but when it came to your own life, the pain was suddenly too much to bear."

"I was on my third round of it!" Charlie's voice was rising in exasperation, and he waved his hands. "I was exhausted. I was done! I just couldn't do it anymore."

"And how about the beach at Santa Barbara, Charlie? When you waded into the water. The sun, the surf. Was that too much to bear?"

Charlie stared at him, seething. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Michaels raised his hands, trying to placate him. "I see a pattern here, Charlie; that disturbs me. True, when you were in the forest after Los Padres, you fought off the urge to intentionally commit suicide. But at least twice now, when faced with an opportunity that no one would question, you conveniently gave up. You allowed something to happen, that in the end, would mean your death. It's passive behavior, to be sure, but you appear to have a self-destructive streak that greatly worries me."

Charlie snorted, and looked at the corner of the room with a smile. It would have appeared pleasant, if it wasn't for the anger snapping in his eyes. "That's ridiculous." He turned back to Michaels. "At Santa Barbara, I had OD'd on drugs. In Hermosillo, I was forcibly injected with drugs. In both cases, I was out of my mind with either euphoria or pain. How can you even begin to think I was making rational decisions?"

"I didn't say the decisions were rational. But you did make them – granted, they were under extremely stressful situations, but you did allow it to happen. There are other signs too, Charlie. Even small signs, like your cavalier disregard for food or sleep when you're on a project – you can't argue that that's healthy behavior."

Charlie shook his head and rolled his eyes, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "So I didn't manage to kill myself in Santa Barbara or Mexico – maybe I'll just starve myself to death. Your hypotheses are not evenly remotely logical."

"I didn't say you were trying to starve yourself to death," said Michaels, noting the tension in Charlie's body language, his barely contained expressions. In spite of Charlie's protestations, he was clearly afraid of this topic, thought Michaels. "It does fit the self-destructive profile, however. And like the other situations, the behavior is stress-induced. Little stresses, like a project, mean little destructive behaviors, like not eating. Big stresses, like torture, generate bigger destructive behaviors. You need to ask yourself what in your life is so terrible, is such a burden, that given the opportunity, you would prefer death to life."

Charlie shot to his feet. "You," he said, smiling through clenched teeth, "are a great doctor; and I normally respect your opinion, but in this case you are dead wrong."

"Really, Charlie." Michaels rose to face him and leaned over his desk, supporting himself on his fingertips. "All right – I'll concede that, depending on your answer to one question. What happened in the river?"

Charlie blinked, and stared at him. He looked suddenly sick. "What?"

"What happened after Ian Edgerton rescued your brother, and it was just you in the river. Did you fight it, or not? Did you try to save yourself, or not?"

Charlie stared at him, but his mind was elsewhere. The feel of the water, the sunlight through the trees; the sense of relief that claimed him as he let the river take him….He jerked his mind back to the present, and whirled on his heel. "That is the most ludicrous thing I've ever heard," he snapped as he flung open the door. "I'm done here."

The door closed with a quiet hiss behind him, and Michaels stood staring at it, still leaning on his desk, for a long moment. Finally, he sat, and reached for the phone.

"Mr. Eppes. I'm sorry to bother you. Charlie left his session early, and he seemed to be in a fairly agitated state. Did he call for you to pick him up? Well, he just left a couple of minutes ago, he may call you yet, or he may just catch a cab. I just think it would be good for someone to be with him right now. Right. All right - no, thank _you_."

Michaels hung up the phone, stared at his papers, rubbed his face, and with a frown, began to write.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 46


	47. Chapter 47

**Chapter 47**

Charlie sprang out of the cab as if he'd been shot from a cannon, and tossed a twenty at the driver. He was up the walk and at the door in an instant, juggling his keys with shaking hands. Once inside, he slammed the door shut and leaned against it for a minute, trembling. Michaels was completely off the mark, he told himself angrily. '_Utter and complete nonsense_.' And now he was all worked up. He held up his hand and it vibrated as if with a will of its own. He needed something to calm himself down, and right at the moment he didn't care if he had an addictive physiology or not.

He strode into the dining room and grabbed a bottle out of the cabinet, not even bothering to see what it was, and took it into the kitchen, fumbling in the cabinets for a shot glass.

He poured the shot with shaking hands and grimaced as he tossed it down. Scotch. He hated scotch. He poured himself another, and swallowed, groaning at the sound of his father's car in the driveway. He did not feel like a conversation. Not now. He set the shot glass on the counter with a sharp rap, and headed out to the garage, slamming the door behind him.

Alan stepped into the kitchen, and his eye immediately caught the open bottle of Scotch, and the shot glass next to it. Frowning, he headed instinctively toward the place Charlie was most likely to be. The garage door was unlocked, and he swung it open. Charlie was standing with his back to him, facing a chalkboard, one hand on his hip, another on the back of his neck.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don turned the corner just in time to see Alan pull into the driveway. He glanced at the clock on the dash – his dad and Charlie were home earlier than they thought they would be. He wondered absently how Charlie's sessions went, and remembered as he parked at the curb that his father had gone to get groceries while Charlie was visiting his doctors. He probably needed help bringing them in.

He walked with long unhurried strides up the driveway, ignoring the slight residual limp, his own session with Bradford on his mind. He had given it some thought, and he knew exactly how he was going to bring up the subject with Charlie. He had a few things to get done first…He slowed as he saw that the trunk of his father's car was shut, and then noticed that the garage door was open. He headed toward it, intending to go in, when the voices floating out stopped him, and he paused, just outside the door.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

"You got done early," said Alan with deceptive mildness. "I would have come and picked you up early, it wasn't a problem."

"Yeah, well, you said you were going to the store," muttered Charlie, fingering a piece of chalk.

"How was your session?"

"Pointless." Charlie swung around and paced back and forth, a little unsteadily. Alan wondered how much Scotch was in his son. Apparently enough to loosen his tongue.

"I thought you liked Michaels."

"I did. I do," Charlie protested, still pacing. "He just got off on this idiotic track today, some stupid neo-Freudian hypothesis about the unconscious mind. He said I have a self-destructive streak, can you believe it?"

Alan, and Don, listening at the door, both felt identical sensations of apprehension. Alan frowned. "And why did he say that?"

"We were talking about the – torture. He wanted to know how I got through it, and why I gave in when they gave me the third shot. I told him I couldn't give in during the first ones; millions of lives were at stake. At the end it was just mine." Charlie's pacing slowed and he looked at his father with a pleading expression. "I just couldn't take any more, that's all it was, and when no one was counting on me…"

Alan stared at him for a moment. "He does have a valid point, Charlie. Why wouldn't you fight as hard for your own life as you did for everyone else's? For most people, it would be the opposite – self-preservation almost always wins out."

Charlie huffed in derision and rolled his eyes. "You sound just like him. Except he had more – get this – he compared it to when I went into the waves at Santa Barbara after the overdose, and he said when I forget to eat or sleep when I'm on a project, it's the same thing. Some kind of passive behavior, he called it. Now you tell me if that's not ridiculous." He turned and slapped the piece of chalk back in its tray with an unsteady flourish. "It's a bunch of bullshit."

Alan raised his eyebrows at the uncharacteristic language. Now, that would be Don's typical reaction to a therapy session, Alan thought, and yet his oldest had come back from his session saying it was good. He didn't know where his sons were coming from these days. He had to admit though, that what Michaels had said to Charlie had him worried. To him, it seemed right on the mark – it described Charlie's behavior to a tee.

"So tell me, Charlie, is he right?" asked Alan softly. Outside, Don strained to catch the answer.

Charlie looked at him; then averted his eyes. "I don't know what to think," he said suddenly in a small voice. "I thought it was stupid at first, but …."

"But what?"

Charlie looked at him. The pacing had stopped, and his son's face was pale, his eyes dark. "He said he would believe me if I told him what happened in the river at Reynosa. When I was in the water by myself, he wanted to know if I fought it, or if I just gave in. That's when I left the session – I told him it was ludicrous, and walked out."

A silence descended. "So which was it?" asked Alan, his calm voice belying the anxiety in his heart.

Charlie's forehead furrowed, and he looked at his father earnestly. "I didn't do it on purpose, any of those times, I swear it. It was just – I was so sure I was going to drown – I was too weak to even sit up by myself at that point, much less swim, and I just thought, why fight it?" Don felt his heart sink, and he leaned against the outside wall of the garage for support. He could hear his father speak and he was astonished at how calm the voice was.

"And why does Dr. Michaels think you do this?"

Charlie was staring at the ground; his shoulders slumped. "He asked me that question – what is it that is such a burden, that when I'm faced with the choice, I don't choose life."

"You do take a lot on, Charlie," said Alan gently. "Maybe too much."

"I thought of that," said Charlie, "but I don't think that's it, not all of it. I mean, the assignment Tompkins gave me was beyond stressful – the rush to get it done, the fact that millions were counting on me – I had to be on time, I had to be right…but a lot of my projects are that way."

"You don't _have_ to be anything, Charlie," said Alan. "You _choose _to be those things. God knows, you always hated to be wrong – about anything. But that's your choice."

Charlie looked at him incredulously. "Okay, I'll buy that I hate to be wrong. But there's a big difference between being wrong on a math problem, and being wrong when someone's life is at stake. Dad, Don and people like Tompkins come to me when they've run out of options. Usually, they're running out of time – and more people will be killed, or _something_ bad will happen if they don't have a solution quickly. And I have to be right. I have to. You cannot stand there and tell me it would have been okay for me to be wrong on the decoding assignment, or not get it done in time. Millions of people would have died. It would not be okay."

Don listened, his heart sinking. Was that the kind of pressure he had put on his brother? The kind of pressure that was so intense, so heavy, that subconsciously, when faced with the opportunity, his brother would let his life go just so that he didn't have to bear it anymore?

Alan stared at Charlie. "Son, I realize that everyone hopes you're right when they give you an assignment. But no one just assumes you will be – they know you're good and that you'll do your best. That's enough."

"No, it's not," said Charlie impatiently, starting to pace again. "When a case or an assignment is at that point, and I'm the last resort, doing my best is not enough if I'm not right. Failure is not an option."

Alan shook his head incredulously. "Charlie, think about what you're saying. You are not perfect. No one expects you to be. There is no one perfect, except God. You will make mistakes, and it's okay – it's human. It's okay to be wrong sometimes – _you do not always have to be right_."

The last phrase came out with each syllable emphasized, and Charlie stared at him. "I wish I could believe that," he said softly, misery in his eyes. "I can't tell you how much I wish I could."

Alan crossed over to him, put his arms around the thin shoulders, and drew the tousled head to him. "Charlie, it may take some time and some effort on your part, but you can. You need to work on that mindset. Dr. Michaels can help, so can I, so can Don. You can't take on the whole world by yourself."

He held Charlie at arm's length and looked into his eyes. "What _did_ get you through the first rounds of torture? Something gave you strength, maybe you can draw on that."

Charlie smiled sadly, and looked away. "I don't think it applies anymore. It was Don." Outside, Don lifted his head, his breath catching.

Alan dropped his arms, and looked puzzled. "Your brother doesn't apply anymore?"

Charlie closed his eyes to hide the tears that suddenly stung them. "I had this vision of him, that day we talked at the park. I thought then that maybe we were – I don't know, getting closer somehow." He opened his eyes again and looked at Alan, sadly. "When they tortured me, that's what I thought of – him at the park that day, smiling…"

Don felt tears spring to his eyes, and he turned into the wall, leaning his forehead on the back of his fist.

Charlie looked at his father despondently. "Anyway, I was kidding myself. Don and I – well, we'll never be close."

Don lifted his head, and let his hands fall to his sides. He felt desperation rising in him. '_Yes, we will, we can..._'

"Charlie, how can you say that?" protested Alan. "I know things haven't been great lately, but look at what you two have been through. You have to give it time-,'

"Dad, I've given it enough time – I've given it my whole lifetime. I'm tired of trying, of hoping – it hurts too much. I can't do it anymore. I've had more pain in this last year than any human can rightfully handle, and I just don't have room for any more. Don doesn't care – he's got his own life, his work, Liz…He and I….what are we anyway, acquaintances, business associates?" Charlie's voice was bitter. Don groaned under his breath, and turned and slumped against the wall.

"Charlie," Alan argued, "what about everything he just did – he went down to Mexico to rescue you-,"

"Which he does every day, for people he doesn't even know. He even admitted that himself, when I was in the hospital, and I tried to thank him for it."

Don felt suddenly nauseated, remembering the conversation. What had he said? The words echoed in his mind. '_Charlie, do you know how many kidnapping victims I've recovered in the course of my career? You don't think I would go after my own brother? Of course I would come after you…'_

Charlie looked at his father regretfully, taking in the despair in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Dad, I can't tell you how much it hurts me too. I'll always admire him, and love him, and look up to him – he's just always seemed so – incredible to me. But I can't keep beating my head against this wall. Don't worry, things will still seem the same – he won't notice a thing. I'm sure he'll be over for dinner and to visit, and I'll welcome him always. Nothing will change." His voice broke a little on the last statement. "Nothing was going to change anyway, no matter how hard I hoped for it. The only difference is, now I'm not hoping anymore. I'm done."

Don leaned against the wall stunned, feeling as if he'd been punched in the gut. Some dim part of his consciousness realized that the conversation was nearing an end, and he couldn't be there, eavesdropping, when they emerged from the doorway. He staggered away from the garage wall, blindly, and stumbled down the driveway in the direction of his vehicle. He somehow made it to his SUV and tumbled into the seat, and sat there, then leaned his forehead on the wheel.

He had finally come to his senses, and realized what he'd been missing in the relationship with his brother, only to find that it was too late. Just like in the warehouse – he was too late - again. He hadn't counted on how much it would hurt; the horrible void in his heart. Was this how Charlie had felt, all these years? Tears stung his eyes, and he fumbled blindly for the ignition, and started the SUV. The engine roared to life, and he drove away, without a backwards glance.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 47


	48. Chapter 48

**Chapter 48**

Megan smiled as she caught a glimpse of the dark head, bent over the desk. She was in early on a Monday, but Don was earlier. "Hey, look who's here," she called cheerfully. "Welcome back."

Don half turned and gave her a subdued smile. "Hey, Reeves." He indicated the pile of reports in front of him. "I'm not sure I even needed to come in – it looks like you've been running a pretty efficient office while I've been gone."

Megan rolled her eyes and grinned as David strolled up. "Oh, no, you're not bucking for more time off. Take it from me, there's plenty that's not getting done around here."

Don rose as David approached, and they clasped hands. "Good to see you, boss," said David, a smile warming his face.

"Yeah, you too," murmured Don. "What's been happening?"

"Come on," said Megan, "let's grab a coffee and I'll fill you in."

The break room looked eerily the same. Somehow, it didn't seem right that something so mundane would stay static after so much had happened. Same layout, same stubborn stain on the counter, same smell – of coffee layered on yesterday's coffee. It was both surreal, and strangely comforting. By the time they came out, just a few minutes later, Colby was there. Megan had started to fill Don in on the current cases, but it was going in one ear and out of the other. He welcomed the distraction that Colby provided.

Colby eyed him with a grin. "Hey, you're lookin' good. Not even limping."

Don grinned back. "Well, not quite. If I sit for a while, my leg gets pretty stiff. Give me an hour in a chair with those reports, and you'll see me hobbling around." He looked at Megan. "Actually, I'm only in for three days this week."

She raised her eyebrows, questioningly, although she already knew what he was going to say. She just wanted to give him the opportunity to deliver the news.

"Therapy?" David asked.

"Nah, actually, I have to go to Washington with Charlie. We're flying out Wednesday night, back on Friday."

Colby frowned. "Something wrong?"

Don smile was soft and full of pride. "No, they're having a private ceremony and a reception at the White House for him on Thursday. They're giving him the Medal of Freedom."

"Medal of Freedom!" exclaimed David. "That's-," he paused, searching for words.

"- only the highest honor that can be awarded a civilian," finished Colby, staring at Don. "It's the civilian equivalent of the Medal of Honor that they give to the military. Holy crap. That's a big deal."

Megan spoke archly. "Well I guess the office will have to do without all of us for a couple of days. Merrick told me about it late Friday, and apparently he swung some invitations for us too." She smiled at the look of surprise on their faces.

Colby grinned back. "You're kidding."

"Nope," she replied, her eyes twinkling. She looked at Don, and saw the pride in his face, along with something else that she couldn't place. Sadness, wistfulness? "So, how's he doing?" she said casually, leaning against the desk.

Don eyes flickered toward her, then away. "Pretty good, considering. He still looks like a stiff breeze will blow him away; and he's having some pain issues, but the doctors say those will go away in time. He's started into therapy – it'll take some time, but he seems better than after Los Padres." His voice trailed off, and his gaze had migrated to the opposite wall, seemingly captured by a blank expanse next to the corner.

His agents glanced at each other. "I have to give him credit," said David softly, and Don came out of his reverie. "He's one tough little guy. He deserves any medals they can give him."

"Yeah," said Don, rousing himself, with a self-conscious glance at the others. He moved to his desk and sat. "I never realized how tough he was, until this." He looked up with a smile, but Megan saw that it didn't reach his eyes. "What are you all standing around for? You only have three days this week. Get to work."

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

They stepped inside the White House entrance, and Alan gave another tug to the back of Charlie's tux jacket.

"Dad," protested Charlie under his breath.

Alan muttered something to himself, and Don couldn't stifle a small grin. Alan had fussed over Charlie in the hotel room, bemoaning the fit of his tux. It had been a little big on him at the CalSci reception nearly four months ago, and now it seemed to engulf him. Alan had finally, reluctantly stopped, when Don pointed out that the length was still good, and it actually hid some of the thinness.

Don looked at Charlie, ran a finger inside the uncomfortable collar of his own rented tux, and smiled wryly. "If I keep hanging around you, I'm going to have to break down and buy one of these things." His eyes held Charlie's for a moment.

Charlie sent him a small smile in return, before he was pulled aside by the White House photographer. Alan stood aside to watch, but Don got caught in front of some people trying to enter the reception, so he went on ahead, and stepped through the doors.

For something that was described as a small private ceremony, it was a rather large event. It was private, Tompkins had told them, partly because not all of the facts around the terrorist attempt had been made public, and partly for Charlie's own safety. They considered Charlie a national resource, and the consensus was that the less other possibly unfriendly parties knew about his talents, the better.

The way Charlie had described it left Don a little unprepared for the number of people, and even more so, the stature of them. Everyone who was anyone in U.S. government was there. The Speaker of the House, the Senate majority and minority leaders, members of the President's cabinet dotted the room along with all of the leadership of the Department of Defense. Pentagon officials and generals, Tompkins and his staff, the heads of the ATF and other enforcement branch agencies milled around the room, along with their wives or significant others, at least those with enough clearance to be there. Don's own director, Dave Maxwell, was standing next to Merrick, with Megan, Colby, and David clustered around them.

Don began to make his way toward them through the people, but as he saw bystanders' eyes turn toward the entrance, he looked back. Charlie was coming in, and Don could hear the comments of the people around him. "_Is that him? Which one, the older guy? No, really! I thought he was a kid – that's him? You know, you hear professor, and you think of some guy with spectacles and a gray beard…"_

Charlie did look like a kid from that distance, his slight stature, long hair and his somewhat shy smile all gave that impression. It wasn't until people got up close, and could look into his eyes, and heard him speak, that they realized they were facing something exceptional. Don had seen it before – people mesmerized by the pure intelligence in those eyes. If anything, they burned with more intensity these days, it somehow seemed that though Charlie had been tempered by his ordeal, like a blade of steel, made stronger by fire. Even though he was thinner, his body weaker, his mind had strengthened. It was as if he was incandescent – a thin filament, burning with all of power of that mind, and the dark sentiments that simmered behind the rational thoughts – radiating outward with a force that made the slight body seem somehow superfluous. His eyes were like a dark flame; throwing off intellect and emotion from their quiet depths.

Those emotions Charlie had kept well in check, nearly hidden from Don. Charlie's statement that Don wouldn't notice a change in his behavior would probably have been true, if Don hadn't heard him say it that day in the garage. Charlie had made an effort to be welcoming, to make conversation when Don had gathered up enough courage to come back, and only Don's knowledge of how his brother really felt allowed him to pick up the subtle signs. Charlie's manner seemed relaxed enough, but Don noticed that his brother didn't keep eye contact with him for very long, and the conversation was bland and mundane.

Charlie was just going through the motions, Don realized, for his sake, for Alan's sake, and Don played right along with the charade. Even though it hurt, he pretended he didn't notice, participating, seemingly at ease, in the meaningless small talk. He was enabling the façade to continue, and although he didn't want to, he was going along with it for the time being, until he could figure a way out of it. In the meanwhile, he had decided to be supportive, to be there for Charlie, to defy at least that part of his brother's impression of him. Maybe if he cast enough doubt on Charlie's opinion of him, when they finally sat down to talk, Charlie would listen. The time for them to talk was coming soon; Don had decided exactly how and where he was going to broach the subject. He just had a few more things to finish, first.

His thoughts were broken as someone accidentally nudged him, and he looked around. Maxwell and Merrick had separated, now involved in conversations with other people, and his team had drifted off, so Don changed his course and headed toward Charlie and his father, who were standing with the President himself, and the Senate majority leader, Sam Phipps.

"You realize, professor," Phipps was saying, "that there is another award, just as prestigious as this, called the Congressional Gold Medal. I have already personally introduced legislation that proposes that you receive that commendation also. It takes a little longer to process, because it needs to go through Congress."

The President looked at Phipps with a twinkle in his eye. "The Executive Branch might argue over whether a Congressional Gold Medal is as prestigious as the Medal of Freedom."

Phipps smirked back at him. "I know we give out less of ours." He winked at Charlie. "You know you did something right, when we're fighting over who gets to give you the highest honor."

Don listened to their friendly banter, and had to smile at the look on Alan's face. He was beaming, and looked like he was about to levitate off the floor with pride. Charlie was smiling, but looked a little abashed, and he murmured something deprecating that Don couldn't catch. The President shook Charlie's hand warmly, and excused himself, and Phipps put a beefy arm around Charlie's shoulders. "Come with me, doctor," he said, "there are some people over here that I'd like you to meet."

Charlie looked just a bit uncomfortable, and as he turned his eyes met Don's and he exchanged a rueful glance that said, "_I really don't want to be here_." It was followed by a smile, and for just an instant, Don caught a glimpse of the old Charlie in his brother's eyes.

Charlie turned away, and Don stared at the back of his head, as Alan stepped next to him, still beaming. "This is unbelievable," his father crowed, and he sighed. "I wish your mother could see this." Silence fell for a moment, and then Alan said, "There's Agent Edgerton."

Don started and looked at his father, and then in the direction of Alan's gaze. Ian Edgerton was lounging casually against the far wall, his dark eyes taking in the crowd without seeming to. Don had never seen Edgerton in a tux, or even remotely dressed up, and he stared for a moment. "What's he doing here?"

Alan glanced at him. "Charlie invited him. He was allowed to invite four guests. I thought you knew. He invited Agent Garcia's sister, too…,"

"Marlena?" Don finished for him, feeling an odd little flurry of anticipation.

"Yes. I met her coming in – oh, there she is, over there."

Don turned and there she was, dressed in a demure black dress suitable for a woman in mourning, but even in the modest dress, she was the most beautiful woman in the room. "Excuse me," Don murmured, without taking his eyes from her, and strode away, leaving Alan with a bemused expression.

She watched him approach, and held out her hand. He took it, and the smooth skin sent an electrical impulse up his arm. "Hello," he said, "I didn't realize until just now that you were going to be here."

She smiled, her eyes on his. "Your brother invited me." Her eyes wandered over toward Charlie, and then back to Don, and she smiled teasingly. "You boys apparently don't talk much."

Don felt a spear of pain at the comment, but held his smile. She couldn't possibly know how close she had come to the mark. "Well, you know...," he said, although he knew she didn't.

"You look better every time I see you," she said.

"So do you," murmured Don, and she blushed and laughed.

"I mean, the bruises are gone, the cane is gone…although I must say; you do look very nice."

"Thank you," he replied quietly, and they stared into each other's eyes for a minute. "Can I get you a drink?"

"Yes," she said softly, "that would be nice."

He stepped over to the refreshment table and returned with two glasses of champagne, and they moved away toward a quieter spot at the edge of the room. She lifted her glass. "To Charlie," she proposed, and Don lifted his to touch hers, gently.

"To Charlie." They sipped, and he looked at her. "How have you been?"

She knew he was referring to her brother, and her smile was tinged with sadness. "All right. I miss him terribly, although somehow I knew that this would happen. The risks he took in that border assignment…it seemed to me to be a question of when, rather than if." She looked up at him. "And you? How have you been?"

Don looked away, his gaze traveling automatically toward Charlie. "Okay. Charlie has a lot of healing to do yet; Dad was afraid that this might be a little much for him."

She noticed that he dodged the question by turning the conversation to his brother, but she played along. "He's seeing a therapist?"

Don nodded. "Yeah. He's been working with him since he got home."

"That's good," she said approvingly. Silence fell, and then she spoke again. "I'm thinking of coming back to L.A. My parents could use me around after what happened. I've been looking into clinical positions." She glanced sideways at him. "Maybe we could see each other." Her words died at his silence, and she stared at him, revelation dawning in her face, then she stammered, "Oh, I'm sorry; I should have asked…you're already seeing someone."

He looked at her with chagrin, and said quietly, "Don't be sorry. But yes, I am seeing someone." He looked away, and then back at her. "I can't right now – I haven't been the best at committing to the people close to me, and I'm trying to change that. It's something I need to do."

She nodded and smiled, but he could see the disappointment in her eyes. He wondered if his looked the same. "Of course," she said, "and I respect you for that. I hope for you that it works, but if it doesn't, please call me." She gazed at him sincerely as she said that; then looked away. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I need to say hello to your brother."

She turned away, her face flushed, but she held her head high. Don watched her go – her walk was regal, like a goddess, but somehow, at the same time sensual. He had the sudden impression that everything he wanted out of life, the people that mattered most to him, seemed to be just out of his reach. He tossed down the champagne, as if it trying to drown the sensation.

Edgerton spoke at his elbow. "There's stronger stuff behind the bar."

Don glanced at him. "Ian."

Ian returned his greeting with a silent, taciturn nod, and their eyes swept the room in tandem, conditioned by their training. It was automatic, almost outside of their control. Ian spoke quietly. "I kept wondering about him, but apparently he checked out."

Don, not sure of who he was talking about, followed his gaze to Jeff Paulson. He stood across the room next to Bob Tompkins, who was talking with Dave Maxwell. They watched Paulson for a moment. "I think it was pretty clear that it was Conway who was behind it all," Don said. "You got to see more of them than any of us – at the hospital, and at the shantytown. You never saw Paulson with them."

Ian shrugged. "I never saw Conway either. Not that it matters. They haven't found Conway or most of his men – there's no doubt that looks suspicious. The whole thing just seemed strange to me, the way it played out…"

His voice drifted off, and they both stared at Paulson. The man wasn't engaged in the conversation around him, Don determined, he was staring across the room. Don followed his line of sight, and realized that Paulson's gaze was resting on Charlie. Paulson's expression was speculative, appraising, and it made Don feel oddly uncomfortable.

Ian noticed it too. "He seems pretty focused on your brother."

Don shrugged, ignoring the discomfort. "If you think about it, Paulson never got the chance to meet him. He's probably curious." Like everyone else, he thought, as Charlie crossed the room toward Tompkins, eyes following him as he went. He glanced at the other agent, noting Edgerton's tight jaw. He's getting almost as protective as I am, thought Don, with grim amusement. He changed the subject. "So, are you on leave?"

Ian nodded. "Yeah. I'm supposedly not fit for duty for another month, and I asked for another month after that. I might take a vacation, do some traveling."

If Ian had said he was going to put on sequined tights and join the circus, Don wouldn't have been more surprised. He shut his mouth, which was hanging open, and tried to compose himself. "Really. That's good. When's the last time you had a vacation?"

Edgerton turned to look at him with a smile, but there was something black behind his eyes. "Never," he said. "I'm looking forward to it." The smile widened slightly, turning almost predatory, and Ian nodded and walked away, leaving Don staring after him.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 48


	49. Chapter 49

**Chapter 49**

Charlie had managed to extricate himself from Senator Phipps and his entourage; and he took a deep breath. His feet hurt - his toes were healing and toenails were starting to grow back, but they were still sensitive, and the shoes pinched. He felt a sudden stab of pain, and it made him abruptly apprehensive. He normally felt those before an aftershock. He hadn't had one in four days – he was due for one. He tried to relax, and shrugged a little to ease the tension in his shoulders.

The fact that he was the focus of the attention of this crowd was beginning to sink in, and he was suddenly feeling a little overwhelmed. He thought longingly of his garage, of peace and quiet, and a place to rest his tired legs and sore feet. He looked around the room, and caught a welcome glimpse of Don's team, who were standing near Bob Tompkins and Dave Maxwell. As he moved toward them, Tompkins crossed the room to meet him, his hand outstretched, the rest of the group moving with him. "Dr. Eppes. I can't tell you how glad I am to see you."

Charlie shook his hand, smiling, but his eyes were filled with sympathy, and something that looked like guilt. "I'm sorry about Dan."

Tompkins' smile was sad. "Thank you. Becky couldn't be here tonight, but she sends you her best wishes. You remember my wife Joan…"

Don wandered up to the group, just as his director, Dave Maxwell, spoke. He was addressing Merrick and Don's team, who were gathered next to Merrick, but his eyes were on Charlie. "It's nice to see one of our own get this."

Tompkins grinned and sent him a verbal jab. "What do you mean; one of _your_ own? He's one of ours. This was an NSA job."

The sparring was good-natured, but it suddenly struck Don as hypocritical. Everyone wanted to use his brother; they were ordinarily content to do just that, and go on their way, with little or no thanks, other than money. Now that he was a national hero, a celebrity of sorts, everyone suddenly wanted to claim him. He smiled tightly as Maxwell shot back, "He was ours first, right Eppes?"

"Right," said Don, baring clenched teeth, although he wasn't even sure about that. He really had no idea how far back Charlie's association with the NSA went. '_He's not anybody's,' _he wanted to say. Charlie picked up the undercurrent of anger in his voice, and looked at him apprehensively.

Paulson stuck out his hand toward Charlie, and Charlie took it. The grip was firm, almost painful. "Dr. Eppes, it's good to meet you. Jeff Paulson."

Don watched the exchange, a bit suspiciously, irrational anger still bubbling inside him.

Charlie looked at Paulson closely. There was a glimmer of something, a wisp of memory; then it was gone. "Have we met before?"

Paulson smiled coolly. "Actually yes. Three years ago, briefly. I didn't think you'd remember. I need to tell you, I owe you an apology."

"Not at all," replied Charlie evenly. "I understand that you and your men were at the river – I wanted to thank you."

Paulson grimaced. "It was too little, too late. If we'd had better information, maybe things would have turned out differently." The glance he shot toward Don was fleeting, but Don didn't miss it, or the innuendo. It touched his already present anger like a match to tinder, and his temper flared.

"If you'd had a cleaner house, maybe we could have given you some information," he growled back, and they glared at each other, eyes snapping.

Tompkins held up his hands. "Relax, gentlemen. If anyone should take the hit for inadequate information, or a dirty house, it's me. That's not what we're here for."

Walter Merrick spoke up. "We had a hand in the miscommunications too. Both of our organizations are trying to move past this." His speculative gaze rested on Don, who used the excuse of an announcement coming from the dais to look away, his eyes still flashing with anger. As he turned he saw Charlie's eyes on him, solemn and dark.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if you would take your seats, we would like to begin the presentation," said a young woman at the microphone.

Seats had been set up for the audience in the center of the room, and Charlie's guests were shown to the front. Merrick and Don's team sat right behind them. Don found himself between Alan and Ian; he suspected by Marlena's choice. The seating arrangement was probably for the best, he thought; it might have been hard to concentrate sitting next to her, and he wanted to focus his full attention on the presentation.

Charlie took his place on the dais with the President, several members of his cabinet, and some of the President's aides. They stood for a moment in front of their chairs as the White House photographer's camera clicked and flashed, and then they sat as the President stepped forward to the podium to speak.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he intoned with a smile, "we are gathered here this evening to witness a presentation of the Medal of Freedom. This is the highest civilian honor our country can bestow, and I have either witnessed or presented several of them during my lifetime. I cannot recall that any of them, however, were awarded for something that would have had such a significant impact on our country's security, on the lives of our citizens, as this one."

"Dr. Eppes merits the award on not just one count, but two. First, his timely decoding of intercepted information prevented an attack on our major cities of unimaginable proportions. Had the terrorists succeeded, millions would have died, and our great country, our civilization as we know it, would have ceased to exist. Secondly, during his subsequent capture by the terrorists, he bravely endured unimaginable torture, rather than allow them to know that we had detailed knowledge of their plans."

As the speech continued, Don's eyes were riveted on Charlie's face. The President's words resonated in his mind – '_subsequent capture… unimaginable torture…' _He felt again the twist of guilt, and a vision of Charlie, strapped to the table, swept through his memory. He could still hear the screams, and he forced them away with an effort, realizing as two aides stepped forward that the presentation was going to be made.

The President gestured to Charlie, and Charlie stood and moved next to him. Don shot a look at Alan; his father was drinking in the scene, his eyes glistening with emotion.

"Many of you in this room have seen the presentation of at least one of these awards," the President was saying. "However, most of you have not seen the version of this medal that we are presenting tonight." He motioned to an aide, who stepped forward and held up a neck ribbon from which hung a medal. Even from where Don sat he could see the weight of it, and the glint of heavy gold, overlaid with red, white and blue enamel.

"This is how the medal is ordinarily presented, on a neck ribbon," continued the President. "There is another version, however, called the Medal of Freedom with Distinction. It is the highest honor that we can bestow, and is the award that we will present this evening. It consists of the medal in a pin form -," The second aide stepped forward and held up a medal hanging from a small wide strip of ribbon, and a separate, ornate red white and blue sash. "- and a sash."

The President turned to Charlie. "Dr. Eppes, on behalf of your country and its citizens, for service above and beyond the call of duty, I would like to present you with the Medal of Freedom with Distinction." He grasped Charlie's hand, as the room erupted in applause and the audience rose to their feet. One of the aides stepped forward to pin the medal on Charlie's lapel, and the other laid the sash over his shoulder. Don felt his heart pounding, and he saw Alan swipe surreptitiously at a tear, as Charlie turned from the President and toward the audience, his gaze resting on Don and Alan for a moment.

The President stepped back, applauding, and Charlie stood facing the room. The enthusiastic clapping was accompanied by cheers, and it showed no signs of stopping until Charlie stepped up to the podium, and adjusted the microphone. He had a small smile on his face, but it was overlaid by quiet, serious eyes. The crowd began to hush, and found their seats.

Charlie looked out at them and started to speak. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began; then stopped suddenly, turning pale. He gripped the podium tightly, his knuckles white.

"Oh no," whispered Alan, as he recognized the signs of an oncoming aftershock.

The room fell completely silent, as Charlie bowed his head and closed his eyes, struggling for control. Whispers started, as those who knew the full story behind his torture filled in those who didn't, and as the word swept through the room of the fiendish injections and their residual effects, the room fell silent once again, in sympathy and respect. As the pain began to subside, and Charlie raised his head, there was new sense of recognition among them of the agony he had gone through.

Charlie smiled through the pain, loosened his grip on the podium, and spoke again, a bit breathlessly. "I'm sorry – my doctors tell me that those will go away eventually." He cleared his throat, and his voice was steady again, low and resonant. In spite of the attack, he appeared completely at ease, and Don marveled at his brother's command of himself on stage, especially in front of a crowd so prestigious.

Charlie continued. "There are several people I would like to thank this evening. I have been blessed with a natural ability, but without education, I would not have been able to do what I do now, and I certainly would not have been able to contribute to the decoding effort. So, first, I would like to thank my parents, who sacrificed, in many senses of the word, for my education. I would especially like to thank my father, for all of his guidance and support over the years." He smiled at Alan, whose face seemed fixed in a permanent expression of joy.

"I would also like to thank Dr. Marlena Garcia, who saved my life in Monterrey at personal risk to herself, and who also made a supreme sacrifice in the loss of her brother." Alan's expression faltered a bit; and he glanced at Don. If Charlie was thanking family members first, he just passed over the most important one. Surely he wouldn't allow his disappointment over his relationship with his brother to tarnish this occasion, thought Alan anxiously. Don appeared not to notice, his face expressionless.

"That man, FBI Special Agent Gerardo Garcia, Special Agent Ian Edgerton, and my brother, Special Agent Don Eppes, risked their lives to get me out of Mexico, and away from the people who were holding me. Agent Garcia, in the end, made the ultimate sacrifice, and gave his life to save ours, as did NSA Agent Dan Caldwell. They, and Agents Megan Reeves, David Sinclair and Colby Granger, were all with me and supported me during the ordeal. Without them, I would not be standing here today."

"Those agents are the true heroes; they defend our country every day, risking their lives, and with the exception of Agent Garcia, who is represented by his sister, and Dan Caldwell, they are all in this room tonight. Before you leave here, I ask that you make an effort to meet them, to see their faces and shake their hands, and let them know how much you appreciate them."

The room erupted into spontaneous applause and Megan, Colby and David exchanged self-conscious smiles. Alan glanced again at Don. Charlie had mentioned him, but only in the company of his peers. Don gazed back at his brother impassively, just like Edgerton on the other side of him, neither of them acknowledging the accolades.

Charlie raised a hand to quiet the audience, and took a deep breath. "There is one person above all others that I need to thank however, and that is my brother. Don, would you please stand." The phrase was a question, but Charlie delivered it as a statement, a polite demand.

Don felt his heart give a strange blip, and he shook his head almost imperceptibly. '_Don't Charlie, this is your day,'_ went through his mind, and he knew that whatever his brother was about to say, he didn't want him to say it, because no matter what it was, he didn't deserve it. Charlie, however, did not continue; he fixed calm eyes on him and waited, and Don realized with dismay, as Alan nudged him, that he was going to have to stand.

He rose slowly, on legs that felt rubbery, and shook off the twinge in his injured thigh, returning Charlie's gaze. Charlie began to address the room again, but kept his eyes on Don.

"Obviously, I admire all of the agents I mentioned, but there is one who I have looked up to my entire life. My brother Don has always been there for me when I needed him."

Don felt his stomach flip. '_No, I haven't_. _Not always, not in the way that counts.'_

Charlie's eyes were on his, outwardly calm, but intense with suppressed feeling. "Anything I know about love of country, about being a patriot, I learned from him. He serves his country with unparalleled devotion, in the name of justice. He risked his life to save mine, but who wouldn't do that for a member of their family? Don does that every day, for complete strangers, for no other reason than they are American citizens."

Don's felt his insides churn at that statement, and he could feel the guilt rising like a cloud. Charlie had taken those words of his spoken in the hospital, the very words that had hurt him, and turned them into something else; twisting them until Don sounded heroic. Don longed to sit down; hell, he wanted to sink into the earth. '_I don't deserve this …' _He stood, chafing inwardly, while Charlie continued.

"And he does it all without question. It is true heroism, and it is as natural to him as breathing. He is the best and bravest person I know. I love him very much and I am so proud to call him my brother."

Don felt another twist to the sword in his gut. Charlie had just told him he loved him, in front of a crowd of the country's leaders. He heard the words with joy, and relief, but the feelings mixed with horrible guilt generated by the knowledge that he had been unable to say those words himself. It took all of his self-control to stand there and listen as the emotions whirled inside him_. I love you too, Buddy, and you'll know, soon…_

Alan had long since stopped trying to hide his tears, he was weeping openly, dabbing at his eyes with his handkerchief. '_Oh, Margaret, if you could see this, if you could hear this…'_

"You see," said Charlie, finally turning his eyes back to the audience, "Don was with me, either physically or in my mind, during the whole ordeal. It was Don, and what he stands for, who gave me the strength to hold out, to hold on when the pain seemed impossible to bear. Without him, I would never had made it through that, and for that reason, this award belongs to him as much as it does to me. I humbly and gratefully accept it on both of our behalves, and I ask that you stand and recognize him, as you have recognized me. Thank you."

The crowd once more leapt to their feet, and Charlie turned his eyes back to Don. They stood there motionless; their gazes locked on each other as the applause and cheers swirled around them, and for a just moment, each of them saw a glimpse of something in his brother's eyes that he had been longing to see.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 49


	50. Chapter 50

**Chapter 50**

Charlie trudged wearily up the stairs and into his darkened room, not bothering to turn on the lights. It was nearly a week after his trip to Washington, and although he had started to gain a little strength back, he was finding that he was still easily tired. Tonight for some reason, he seemed even more exhausted. Maybe it was from his session with Michaels today, which was more painful than he anticipated, or maybe it was because he had been tackling more projects and paperwork from school, in an effort to keep his mind occupied. Whatever the reason, he was too fatigued to do more than to strip off his jeans and climb into bed.

Michaels had been hard on him in his last couple of sessions. Charlie still refused to acknowledge to his therapist that he had given up at those critical points, when his life had hung in the balance. He had gotten even more stubborn with his father, rather than less, when it came to eating. He knew he was being unreasonable, but there was something, a pervasive feeling inside that made him want to buck what was reasonable, what was good for him. Passive rebellion, Michaels called it. He had been trying to get Charlie to come to grips with his behavior, so they could figure out why he was acting that way, but all the talk just served to make Charlie more obstinate.

The fact was; he knew deep inside that he wasn't behaving rationally, or taking care of himself the way he should. He couldn't even place a name on the emotions that simmered inside of him – anger, sadness, frustration and who knew what else – that kept him on a slow burn. To make matters worse, Don had spent much of the last week at his apartment because he had to work late at the office.

His brother wasn't cleared for field duty yet, but he was immersed in a case load that had suddenly exploded, managing the assignments from the office. In spite of Charlie's vow that he wouldn't pursue a deeper relationship with his brother, he found himself still looking forward to Don's visits. Hell, who was he kidding? In spite of his words to his father in the garage, he knew, deep inside, that nothing had changed. He was still plagued with the unreasonable hope that maybe someday they could be closer. No matter how hard Charlie tried to distance himself, he had an awful feeling that it would always be that way.

It didn't help that Don, when he was there, actually seemed fully engaged, trying to make conversation, even going so far as to inquire about the papers Charlie was grading, and then sitting patiently through a tutorial that Charlie knew he didn't understand. Charlie had to admit, the distance between them these days was primarily of his own making.

It was better that way, though, right? Low expectations meant no more disappointment. At least that's what he kept telling himself. He knew logically he needed to keep that distance. It just didn't feel…right.

He sighed, and turned, hugging the pillow. In spite of the thoughts spinning in his head, exhaustion won, and it was only moments before he was asleep.

"_Step out slowly, hands up."_

_They climbed out of the van, and Charlie watched as they searched his brother and his team, and felt the rough hands on his own torso. His heart was pounding. He listened as Mahir berated his men for shooting at them, and then commanded them to search the van. _

_Mahir turned to Charlie. "You will come with me."_

_Charlie saw the fear flash through Don's face, and watched his brother step forward with a determined set to his jaw. Mahir stepped in front of him, furious, and the group halted. "Did I not ask you to follow orders?" he barked, his face darkening with anger. "I will not tolerate disrespect."_

_Don faced him, his eyes cold. "My orders are to stay with him." _

_Charlie watched with growing terror as Mahir turned away, then spun around and shot. The bullet hit Don's arm with a sickening smack, and in a fog of horror, Charlie saw him stagger. Then arms were pulling at him, pushing him away from Don, toward the van. He clambered in, his heart hammering so hard he couldn't breathe._

_Mahir climbed in beside him, and took out his cell phone. When he spoke, it was in Farsi. "Mohammed. We have him. We are en route to the factory. Our brother in Allah was kind enough to vacate it for our use." He paused, listening. "He is not cooperating so far. But he will. Do you want me to notify Paulson?" _

"_Paulson, thought Charlie. The name sounded familiar…"_

He sat bolt upright in bed, his heart still pounding; the visions from the dream still clear in his mind. "Paulson – oh my God…" He stared for a moment, dumbfounded, then fumbled madly with the blankets, and almost fell out of bed in his haste. Stumbling toward his desk, he flicked on the light, wincing at the brightness; and found and flipped open his cell phone. He dialed, waiting impatiently for a response, and reflexively straightened as a voice came on the other end. "Bob, I'm sorry to call you so late; it's Charlie…"

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don guided his SUV through the streets of Pasadena, en route from CalSci to Charlie's house. He had just met with Larry and Amita on something they had been working on together for Charlie, and the near completion of the project made him feel both satisfied and a little panicky. It just needed one more item; then the stage would be set. He _would_ have that talk with his brother, and tell him how he felt, and he knew just how he was going to do it. The moment was fast approaching, and he couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope, along with the trepidation.

It was near lunchtime on Friday, a little over a week since the trip to Washington, and Don thought that was as good an excuse as any to stop and see his brother. Alan would be at work, but Don hadn't been to the house all week, and he figured he could at least stop for a sandwich, a quick hello, and to make Charlie eat something, if nothing else. He knew from conversations with his father that his brother was still struggling a bit, and he wanted to see him for himself.

As he turned the corner, he almost stopped the SUV dead in the street, surprise and fear coursing though him as he took in the vehicles parked at his brother's house. Official-looking vehicles, dark SUV's and sedans. With his heart in his throat, he pulled his SUV forward and surged into a spot next to the curb, threw the vehicle into park and leapt from the seat.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Charlie scanned the pictures in front of him. He was seated at the table in the garage; Tompkins, Merrick, and several agents gathered around him. He indicated a photo. "This one was at the hospital," he said, pointing to Kirtland. "This one was also, and this one." He pointed out Jensen and Sykes.

Tompkins nodded slowly. "That's confirmation. We know for a fact that Paulson said that Kirtland and Jensen were his men, although he denied that Sykes was."

Merrick frowned. "Paulson could still claim they were planted by Conway, and that it was Conway directing them at the hospital. The only real evidence that we have that Paulson is the traitor is what Charlie remembered in his dream."

Tompkins sighed. "Which would be unlikely to hold up in a court marshal. That brings us back to where we were before." He looked at Charlie. "Are you sure you're up for that?"

Before Charlie could respond, angry voices were heard at the door, and it burst open with a bang. Don stood at the door, his eyes blazing. He took in the group around Charlie, and his brother's expression. Charlie looked tense, a little frightened, and guilty, like he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"What in the hell's going on here?" growled Don.

Merrick stepped forward, his face stern, and took Don's arm. "Don. Let's talk outside."

Don didn't budge. "Charlie. Are you okay?"

Charlie found his voice. "Yes. I'm fine, Don." He looked anything but fine; he looked decidedly uneasy, but at his words Don reluctantly allowed Merrick to guide him away, out into the driveway.

"What's going on, and why wasn't I told about it?" demanded Don, as soon as they stopped.

"It's classified," Merrick said evenly. "We weren't even sure what the ramifications were, until we talked to Charlie."

"He's on another assignment?!" exploded Don. "He hasn't even recovered yet! What kind of crap is this? It's the NSA again, isn't it? Why are you here?"

Merrick ignored his first two questions. "Yes, this is being directed by the NSA. Tompkins asked me for help. I pulled together some agents for him. Charlie contacted us – he's doing this of his own choosing. That's all I can tell you."

"Doing what?" asked Don suspiciously. "And I would bet he's not doing this because he wants to; the NSA is making him feel that he has to."

Merrick's gaze was direct. "When it comes to serving your country, is there really a difference?"

Don stared back at him, disbelief and anger mingling on his face. "You cannot possibly be asking him to do whatever this is, after everything he's gone through."

Merrick replied resignedly. "Don, we don't have much of a choice, and neither do you. It's Charlie's call. Now, you need to leave, and you cannot tell anyone that you saw us here today. Not your father, not anyone, if you value Charlie's safety."

Don looked from Merrick to the agent standing behind him, and realized that to make a scene would be pointless, as much as he wanted to. He spoke with barely contained fury. "I'm leaving, but I'm talking to Charlie later. Whatever this is, you'll have to find some other way to get it done, so you might as well start thinking about it. There's no way in hell I'm going to let him get involved in this." He spun on his heel and strode down the driveway, and Merrick watched him go with a sigh.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Paulson leaned back from his desk and stretched, then sat back forward with a thump as his cell phone rang. He flipped it open, frowning in confusion at the unfamiliar number. "Jeff Paulson."

On the other end, Charlie glanced quickly at the technician, who nodded. The conversation was being broadcast from the speaker, hooked up to equipment tied to the phone in the dining room. Charlie focused his eyes on the table on front of him and willed himself to speak calmly. "You must have the money by now."

"What?" snapped Paulson, thinking guiltily of the millions that were transferred into his offshore account, just two days ago. "Who is this?"

Charlie's voice was cool; somewhat teasing. "Really, Jeff, you don't recognize me? After all you put me through? I'm disappointed. It's Charles Eppes."

Behind Charlie, Merrick allowed a small smile to play on his lips. He'd always thought of Charlie as a studious, somewhat reserved academic. He wouldn't have thought him such an actor.

Paulson felt his heart lurch, and tried to collect himself. "I'm not sure what you're talking about, Dr. Eppes. Perhaps you can explain."

"Gladly," replied Charlie. "You see, I know of your involvement in the recent terrorist plot. I heard Mahir mention you in cell phone conversations, several times, and it was clear that not only were you involved, you were a major player. I imagine that you received a nice payout for your efforts, and I think that after everything I went through, I'm entitled to a share."

"If you thought that I was involved, why didn't you turn me in?" sneered Paulson.

"I did think about that," said Charlie, "but the money sounded more appealing. You don't really believe I consult solely for our government, do you? They don't pay all that well." He raised his eyebrows at Tompkins, and got an encouraging nod in return.

Charlie continued. "Here's my deal – I get half of what they gave you. And before you think of stonewalling or trying to obscure the actual amount, don't think that I don't have the ability to find and hack into your account, and see exactly how much is there. In return for half, I keep silent, and I offer my assistance to you in your next undertaking, whatever that may be. For a price, of course."

He's making a huge mistake, thought Paulson angrily. He tamped down the anger, and thought furiously. He really had no choice in the matter, and he was certain that his Iranian friends would be thrilled to have Dr. Eppes at their disposal in the future. It was going to cost Paulson dearly, but perhaps he could convince the Iranians to replace the money, or some of it. It might work out, after all, but damn, he hated being played. Of course; on the other hand, if Dr. Eppes could be removed… He considered for a moment, then spoke, trying to control the anger in his voice. "I still say you are mistaken. I am willing to meet with you to discuss this, however."

"Good. Be in downtown L.A. tomorrow at 1:00 p.m., with unmarked cash. I will call you at 1:00 and direct you to the meeting place. Keep in mind, the location will be public – very public, so don't think about trying anything."

"I wouldn't dream of it," murmured Paulson. "Very well, doctor, this is not much notice, but I will plan to see you tomorrow. I am assuming I can reach you at this number if I have a problem?" At Charlie's affirmative, he closed his cell phone and dialed immediately; it was Friday afternoon, and he only had a few hours to make arrangements, and to find a flight.

As the connection broke, Charlie put down the receiver and sat back, taking a deep breath, and tried to hide the fact that he was shaking. He looked at Merrick and Thompson, who were listening to the taped conversation.

"What do you think?" asked Merrick. "Is there enough there?"

Tompkins shook his head, and spoke over the recorded voices. "He's smart. He didn't admit to anything, and if we took him in based on this, all he would have to say was that he was acting in the public interest, that he thought Charlie was a spy, and was trying to bring him in." His cell phone rang, and he stepped away, his hand up, placing the conversation on hold. The tape ended, and Charlie and the rest of the group waited in silence, watching him.

After a few moments, Tompkins snapped the phone shut and stepped back toward the group, his eyes black. "A few days ago, some bodies were discovered in the desert by Mexican police. I just got DNA results back – it was Jim Conway and his entire team. They were executed, just outside of Hermosillo." Silence fell, as the group absorbed the dark news – a whole team of agents, slaughtered in the desert.

Merrick frowned. "Does that change things?"

Tompkins sighed. "No, not really. It rules out Conway, but it still doesn't specifically implicate Paulson. Paulson could claim that anyone else, even an unknown person, was responsible."

He looked at Charlie. "I know we talked about the possibility of you having to carry out the meeting, Charlie, but we can understand if you don't want to. If you decide to do it, we'd have a least a dozen agents on you, and we'd take all precautions. I know it's a lot to ask…"

Charlie felt the weight of their eyes. He swallowed and straightened his back. When he spoke, his voice was resolute. "We can't let him get away with what he's done. Besides, I have a personal stake in this." He paused and looked back at them. "I'll do it."

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Alan set the clean pot down carefully on the kitchen counter, and listened. His sons were trying to keep their voices down, but there was no mistaking the sounds of an argument coming from upstairs, Charlie's bedroom by the sound of it. His heart sank. Don had come over that night after a whole week away, and Alan was hoping for a nice peaceful evening; and another small step forward for his sons. Instead, they had barely spoken to each other, until this moment. Charlie had gone upstairs and Don had gone after him, and now they were arguing.

Charlie's tone sounded pleading; Don's was furious, and a moment later, Charlie bounded down the stairs and out to the garage without so much as a look, his face flushed with frustration. Alan watched him go, wisely holding his tongue; then glanced through the kitchen door to see Don striding for the front door, only to stop suddenly, and head for the sofa.

Don was livid, and his first inclination had been to leave. As he reached the front door, however, reason prevailed over his emotions, and he made an about-face and flung himself on the sofa, seething. So, Charlie was refusing to tell him what he was involved in, okay then. He would just stick around; in fact he would stick to his brother like glue. If Charlie was involved in something, then so was he. He jabbed angrily at the remote button, and scowled at the television. _"_Try to get rid of me, Chuck," he muttered to himself. "Just try."

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 50


	51. Chapter 51

**Chapter 51**

Don lay sprawled on the sofa, and watched as Charlie came out of the dining room and went up the stairs. It was ten minutes before 11:00 on Saturday morning, and Don had to admit, keeping an eye on his brother was starting to get a bit boring.

He had realized the night before after a few minutes in front of the television; that Charlie could leave the garage without him knowing it, so Don told Alan he was going for a walk, and slipped out the front door. As he made his way through the darkness around the corner of the house, a figure stepped in front of him, and in the glow from one of the windows, Don recognized one of the agents from that afternoon. When the agent saw who it was, he nodded and stepped back wordlessly, melting into the shadows; and Don continued around to the back of the house. Charlie was under surveillance again. Great.

As he got to the back, he pulled a chair off the patio over to the side, where he could watch the garage door. It was open a bit, and he could hear the familiar rap of chalk against the blackboard. After a period of time that seemed like an eternity, but was actually a little under three hours, Charlie came out and headed back into the house. Don watched him go, slumped motionless in the chair, through half-closed eyes.

When Don reentered the house and realized that Charlie had gone to bed, he headed for his own room in order to avoid his father's curious gaze, and the questions that would come with it. He had dozed fitfully with his door open that night, listening for Charlie. When Charlie arose, he got up with him, but kept his distance. Charlie had spent most of the morning working at the dining room table, and Don had stationed himself on the sofa, flipping through channels on the television. He was just beginning to wonder if he was over-reacting, when Charlie had gotten up suddenly from the dining room table, moving as if he had a purpose.

Now Charlie was coming back down the stairs, wearing jeans, a loose, buttoned shirt with the tails out, and a tweed blazer. Don glanced at his watch – eleven a.m. precisely. Charlie headed for the front door, calling, "I'm going for a walk."

Don was up immediately, radar on full alert. Charlie normally wore a T-shirt and jogging pants when he went walking – the clothes weren't right. He took the stairs two at a time and headed for his bedroom window, looking down in the front yard. Charlie was still on the front walk, pacing, swinging his arms as if he was warming up – waiting for something. Don darted to the closet. He needed something else to wear, something inconspicuous. He slipped off his own jeans, and pulled on some jogging pants, and rummaged in the back of the closet. There it was.

When he had first moved back to L.A., Charlie had given him a hooded Dodgers sweatshirt that was at least three sizes too big, claiming that the kids and the "in" crowd were wearing them that way. Don had worn it once or twice to be polite, but it sat in the closet after that, gathering dust. He threw on a ball cap, and pulled the sweatshirt on. The oversized hood and the ball cap would cover most of his face.

He took a quick glance out of the window, and saw a fit-looking woman walk by with a dog on a leash. Charlie started down the walk after her, keeping a reasonable distance behind her. Don hesitated for a moment, looking at his service weapon; then quickly strapped it to his leg, and tucked his cell phone in his pocket. Better safe than sorry.

He grabbed his badge and ID and bounded down the stairs, calling out to Alan in the kitchen. "Hey Dad, I'm going for a walk, too – see ya." He was out the door before Alan could step out of the kitchen.

He pulled the hood over his head and yanked down the brim of the ball cap, strolling slowly at first, trying to put at least a block between them. It didn't really matter; Charlie never turned around. For few minutes, it looked as if maybe he was going for a walk after all; he was headed toward the park. At least, it did, until the van pulled up alongside him. The woman with the dog stopped and gave Charlie a nod, and he headed for the van as the door opened, and climbed in. The woman shot a look toward Don, her eyes narrowed, and he turned away, pretending to wait for someone at the curb.

He swore under his breath. He needed a car, and he was too far away from his own SUV. He looked around wildly; a battered sedan was cruising down the street, filled with teenagers, vibrating with the heavy beat of a rap tune. He was about to run out and flag it down, when it swerved suddenly and pulled into the driveway behind him, which was flanked by a high hedge. Better yet - because of the bushes, Miss Agent down the block couldn't see him commandeer the car. He dashed back toward it, yanking his hood down and pulling out his ID at the same time, as the kids started to clamber out. "FBI! Official business! I need that car!"

The kids froze, and the driver stared at him, not moving. Don grabbed the keys dangling from his hand, and shoved his badge in his face, and the kid backed up. Don wasted no time; he jumped in and backed the car out with a screech of tires. "Awesome," said one of them, uncertainly, and the group stared dumbfounded, as the car sped away.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

The van pulled up in front of a nondescript storefront downtown, and Charlie climbed out. One of the men in the van, an ATF agent, got out behind him, and they went into the shop. Inside, it looked like a somewhat ratty video and music store, but it was actually a downtown base for some of the ATF undercover operations. Charlie followed the man to the back of the store, and they went through a doorway into a small hall, then into a back room.

A man looked up as they entered, and the ATF agent said, "Make it quick."

The man nodded, and the agent disappeared. "I'm Joe," he said. "Come in, and take off your jacket and shirt." He nodded approvingly as Charlie started to unbutton the shirt. "Good clothes, nice and loose. Sit here." He patted a table that looked like a doctor's exam table, and Charlie, now bare-chested, pulled himself up on it. "You ever been wired before?"

Charlie shook his head. "No."

"Well, I have to tell ya," said Joe, as he began taping wires to Charlie's torso, "this tape's gonna hurt a little when it comes off. I'm apologizing in advance."

"That's okay," said Charlie quietly. He could feel the tension increasing, and a sadistic band of butterflies was rampaging through his gut.

Joe glanced at the scars on Charlie's chest; and his eyebrows rose. "Car accident?" he asked.

Charlie glanced down, emotionlessly. "Knife wounds."

Joe stopped and stared at him. "Right." He went back to work, taping with a puzzled expression. "I thought they said you were civilian. What d'ya do for a livin'?"

"I'm a math professor."

Joe stared again. His teenage son was considering going to college to get a teaching degree. Maybe I should talk him into law enforcement, Joe thought. It might be safer.

"Okay," he said, "put your shirt back on." Charlie complied, and Joe pulled up a wire with an earpiece out of his collar, running it underneath Charlie's hair to his ear. "Great. Your hair hides that completely. You're set. They're waiting for you back in the van, and they'll make sure you're turned on and your frequency's adjusted. Good luck."

"Thanks." Charlie stood, buttoning his shirt, and shrugged on his jacket, feeling the tape pull at his skin. Yesterday this had sounded easy, but now that it was happening, he felt suddenly apprehensive. He wished belatedly that he had done what Don had said, and told them no. It was too late now, though, he told himself, as he walked back through the store to the van. The sting was underway, and the events were rolling, like a boulder down a hill. There was no option now, other than to ride this out.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don pulled into a spot a block away and watched as Charlie got out of the van. He frowned, noting the storefront; he was aware it was an ATF base. He hadn't recognized all of the agents yesterday; he knew that a few were ATF, and he recognized one FBI agent from Vegas. He had no idea who the others were, or where they reported; they might be NSA, they might be anyone. He still didn't have a clue as to what this was about.

Several minutes later, Charlie came back out and got back into the van, and Don pulled out, three cars back, as it headed down the block. He followed it through several blocks of downtown traffic, until it swung into a small pay parking lot a half block from a plaza.

Don passed it; he could hardly park in the lot; it was too small and he would end up too close to them, and there were no spots on the street. He finally found one along the curb across the street from the plaza, and pulled into it. If he turned around and leaned sideways in his seat, he could see the van.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

The technician adjusted Charlie's earpiece. "Okay, we're going to make sure you can pick up the big guys. He spoke into a mouthpiece. "All right, Director."

"Charlie, this is Tompkins. Do you read?" Tompkins' voice sounded in Charlie's ear.

"Yes," replied Charlie.

Tompkins voice fed into the technician's earpiece also. "That's clear. Say something for Walt, Charlie."

"Testing," said Charlie.

Merrick's voice came over the earpieces. "That's good. You guys have me?"

"Yeah," said Charlie. The technician was listening intently, and turned the volume down in the earpieces just a bit.

"Okay," came Tompkins' voice. "Let's go over this once more. Merrick and I are close by, and we've got our agents in the plaza. You'll go over to the bench under the tree, near the fountain – we've got people there, and they'll get up and vacate it for you when get near it. Set your briefcase down next to you to discourage anyone else from sitting there. If they try, you'll have to get rid of them. At 1:00, which is about ten minutes from now, call Paulson and tell him where you are. Remember, he is to come alone, with the money. Try to engage him in conversation if you can, to get him to incriminate himself, but don't let him get suspicious. The money alone will be evidence. We'll have the video rolling too."

"Right," said Charlie, feeling his heart start to pound in earnest.

"Okay then, are you ready? Relax; this should be a piece of cake."

"Yeah, I'm ready."

"Okay, good luck. You can talk to us if you need to, remember; just don't be obvious. When you get to the bench, say something, so we can test the audio from that point."

The van door opened, sunlight streamed in, and for a moment, Charlie had a flashback of the van in the desert; he almost expected to see Mahir standing outside holding an automatic weapon. He shook off the image, and climbed out, then began to walk down the block toward the plaza.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don's brow furrowed as he saw Charlie exit the van, and begin to walk toward him. His path was going to take him right by the car, and Don slumped in his seat, pulling the brim of his hat low, and the hood around his face. He punched the radio button; rap music came on, and he turned the volume lower with a wince.

Charlie was past him now, without a second glance, and he crossed the street. He was carrying a briefcase, and headed toward a bench. A young man and woman that were sitting there got up as he approached and walked away, arms around each other. Charlie sat, placing the briefcase beside him on the seat. He put a hand up and pretended to cough; it would not have been noticed by the average observer, but to someone familiar with surveillance, the gesture looked staged, and Don realized suddenly that his brother was speaking behind his hand – he was wired.

Don sat up straighter in the driver's seat, and looked around. "Damn it," he breathed, "What is this?" As he looked around the plaza, he kept stealing glances at Charlie, and noted that his brother had pulled out his cell phone and was speaking into it. Don's eyes picked out one of the agents from yesterday, standing near the fountain, also on a cell phone, dressed as a businessman. As Don's gaze traveled he picked up another agent. The couple from the bench had moved over to the concrete rim of the fountain, but had gone no further. Agents, too, apparently.

Don scowled angrily and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Damn Tompkins and Merrick. They had set up some kind of meeting between Charlie and another party, it was obvious. The plaza was filled with people, and his brother was surrounded by agents, but their very presence, and the fact that he was wired, meant that there was some level of danger. For a moment, Don contemplated getting out of the car, going over and dragging his brother out of there, but he knew it would be fruitless. The other agents would be all over him in a second, and if they managed to remove him, he wouldn't be there when the meeting went down. On top of that, if he intervened, he could put Charlie in more danger. There was nothing he could do; but to sit and watch

He sat and waited, observing Charlie for a good fifteen minutes. Suddenly he saw his brother's body language change; he tensed; then pretended to cough again. Don scanned the area, and his gaze was captured by a cab that had just pulled up. As he watched the occupants exit, his heart leapt painfully. Walking toward his brother were Jeff Paulson and Joe Sithman.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 51


	52. Chapter 52

**Chapter 52**

Charlie saw Sithman and Paulson get out of the cab, and he put his hand in front of his mouth to hide the movement of his lips. "He's got Sithman with him. What do I do?"

Tompkins replied back over the earpiece. "Just play along. There are still just the two of them, and we've got them outnumbered."

Charlie coughed for appearance's sake, and took his hand down. His pulse was racing and his hands felt clammy, but he put a look of annoyance on his face. He almost lost the expression as he realized that Paulson didn't have a briefcase with him, either, like he was supposed to, but he struggled to keep the appearance of irritation, as he slid his briefcase off the bench, and set it on the ground. They stopped in front of him; and when Charlie spoke, his voice sounded surprisingly calm. "You don't follow instructions very well. I said come alone." He glared at Sithman as he spoke.

Paulson smiled and sat down next to him, uncomfortably close, and Sithman sat on the other side, his huge shoulder against Charlie's. Charlie could hear voices crackling in his ear. "_We've got physical contact, intimidating behavior. Move in, but hold your covers_."

Charlie saw the businessman-agent drift toward them, still talking on his cell phone.

"Actually," said Paulson, "we decided that we'd rather discuss this in the cab." He nodded to the cab they had just vacated, which was idling at the curb. "We'll just take a short ride around the plaza."

"I don't think so," said Charlie his tone slightly sardonic. He froze; as he felt something hard against his ribs, and looked down to see Sithman's hand wrapped around a pistol, the muzzle pressed into his side.

Paulson was still smiling, his eyes icy. "I do," he said, and Charlie could see that he was holding what looked like a weapon also, concealed under the front of his jacket. Charlie's stomach clenched, and Paulson continued. "Stand up slowly, and we'll take a little walk. Leave the briefcase."

"I've got a big problem with this," Charlie said, desperately, as much to the agents on the other end of the wire as to Paulson, and as he spoke, Sithman's eyes narrowed as he picked out the agent on the cell phone.

"He's got company," he growled. "Two o'clock."

Paulson's head whipped around, and his hand closed on Charlie's upper arm like a vise. He realized at that moment, with a shock, that the game was up; they were on to him - there was no other alternative than to try to escape, and to somehow, get out of the country. "You little son of a bitch," he hissed, turning back and glaring at Charlie with hate in his eyes. Paulson's hand had pushed Charlie's shoulder upward, and the collar of his jacket rode up toward his ear, displacing the hair hiding the earpiece. "You're wired, aren't you?" He yanked Charlie to his feet, as Sithman rose and grabbed his other arm. "Call them off."

Charlie spoke to Tompkins and Merrick, his voice taut with fear. "Bob, Walt, he wants you to call off your people."

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don watched as Paulson and Sithman approached Charlie; then sat down on either side of him. He knew now, without question, what this was about, and the realization made his heart pound. He bent over, his arms under the steering wheel, feverishly releasing his weapon from his leg holster, his eyes still on his brother. He could see the agents drifting closer, and as he yanked open the car door, he saw Paulson pull Charlie roughly to his feet. His heart skipped a beat as he saw the weapons pressed against his brother's rib cage.

He stuffed his piece in the jacket's voluminous front pocket, and as he turned, slammed the door, and prepared to dash across the road, his leg went into spasm, his injured thigh cramping from sitting for so long. He swore and took off anyway, limping, just as the agents surrounding Charlie pulled their weapons, screaming at Paulson and Sithman to drop theirs. The remaining occupants in the plaza scattered, looking over their shoulders in fear.

Paulson reacted immediately by putting an arm around Charlie's neck and the pistol to his head, holding Charlie in front of him. Charlie tried to twist away, but Paulson's grip tightened, cutting off Charlie's air supply. The bigger man was moving slowly forward, dragging Charlie with him, and Charlie's chest heaved as he tried desperately, unsuccessfully, to bring in air, clawing with no effect at Paulson's arm. "Back off," yelled Paulson, as Sithman closed in next to him, trying to get as much of his bulk behind Charlie as he could. "Back off, and lower your weapons!"

Charlie was beginning to see stars, and he could hear voices in his ear again. "Hold your positions! Do NOT lower your weapons! Keep them covered, but do not advance! We don't want to provoke him."

Don could see the stalemate developing as he limped across the street. The agents were circling Paulson and Sithman, but none of them had a chance to get between them and the cab, and the two men had turned with their backs to the vehicle and were dragging Charlie in front of them as they backed up. In a moment, they would be at the cab, and it would be too late to get a shot of any kind. Paulson and Sithman hadn't seen him closing in from behind them yet. It would be up to him, Don realized, as he looked at the other agents, frozen in their positions. He knew that he must look like a street person, and played up the limp, hoping his appearance would provide enough of a disguise for him to get close.

Sithman's head swiveled at the movement, slightly behind them and to their left, and he picked up the approaching figure in the oversized sweat jacket, head down, face covered by the ball cap. He jerked his pistol toward it, and Paulson followed his eyes. Don's limp and his outfit made him look like a jive-walking gang member, and Paulson dismissed him immediately. "Forget him," he hissed at Sithman, "that crackhead's so stoned he doesn't even see what he's walking into. Keep your eyes on them." He jerked his head toward the agents.

Charlie's face was turning dark from lack of oxygen; he slumped and his eyes rolled back in his head as Don limped up the curb, past the cab and right in front of the agents and their leveled guns, who stared at him, disconcerted. They were even more shocked when he kept walking, as if to pass Paulson, and as he did so, stopped suddenly, lifted his arm straight out to the side, and pointed his gun at Paulson's head, yelling, "Drop it!"

Paulson's lack of concern had allowed Don to get close, much closer than the other agents. He was about five feet away, and couldn't miss at that range. It helped that Paulson was almost a head taller than Charlie was, and that his brother was slumping. Paulson jerked his head around in surprise, and fear showed in his eyes as he realized who he was looking at. Don's eyes were steely under the brim of the ball cap, and filled with hate. "Let him go, Paulson, drop your weapon, or I _will_ shoot."

The barrel of Paulson's gun had drifted downward slightly, and he tightened his grip on the weapon and began to lift it. The movement was slight, and Don couldn't tell whether Paulson had intended to point it at him or to put it back to Charlie's head, but it was enough. He adjusted his bead on Paulson's head, and squeezed the trigger.

Paulson saw Don's finger tense, and reflexively, at the last moment, he rose on his toes and dragged Charlie upward, trying to pull him into the path of the bullet. Don caught the movement just as the trigger released, and his heart jumped in terror. The bullet hit, then red gushing blood covered Charlie's face, and for a moment, Don froze, wondering in horror if he had just shot his brother through the head.

They both went down, Charlie on top of Paulson. As they fell, Paulson's gun discharged, and Don realized that he had no idea where that bullet had gone either, praying it was not in his brother. Sithman was now exposed, and was immobilized for a moment by shock. He leveled his weapon toward Don, who, in shock himself, was now operating on autopilot. Years of training kicked in; Don whirled to fully face him with both arms extended, automatically, and his round hit Sithman in the chest just as Sithman pulled the trigger. Sithman's hands jerked upward with the impact, and the bullet sailed harmlessly over the nearest building.

Don immediately ran forward, pulling off his cap and hood, his knees shaking; his heart pounding. _Dear God, Charlie…I never got a chance to tell him - God, tell me I didn't just kill my brother…_ He was vaguely aware that he might get a round in the back, but he didn't care. He dropped to his knees and lifted Charlie's torso from where it lay on the pavement. Charlie's head rolled back and his eyelids fluttered, his breath ragged.

Don looked frantically for a wound; then spotted it – a gaping hole in Paulson's throat. The blood on Charlie's face was from Paulson, he realized, but to be sure, he ran his hands through Charlie's hair and searched his torso for any signs of Paulson's bullet. Nothing. With a huge surge of relief, he took a deep shaky breath, and looked back at Paulson. The man was staring at him, his eyes bulging in terror, gurgling, his mouth working in a fruitless effort for air. Don, still clutching Charlie to him, stared back at Paulson impassively, as the whites of the traitor's eyes showed, and he twitched with a last convulsive movement.

Charlie stirred and moaned in Don's arms. Paulson's body had broken much of his brother's fall, but there was a swelling on the side of Charlie's forehead where it had contacted pavement.

"Charlie," Don looked down into Charlie's half-open eyes, as the agents swarmed around them. He heard shouts as they surrounded the cab, and pulled the driver, Kirtland, from it. Charlie's head lifted and then dropped back again, and he groaned. "Take some deep breaths," directed Don. His voice trembled, an after-effect of the adrenaline, and he swallowed.

He heard Merrick's voice from behind him, breathless from running from his concealed post. "Nice job, Eppes. I'm not sure how you found us, but we're damn glad you did." Don didn't respond, as the terror subsided, he could feel black fury rising to replace it.

Tompkins and Merrick moved around into Don's line of sight, and squatted, looking at Charlie anxiously. Charlie stirred groggily. His eyes began to focus and he struggled to sit up, and Don supported him as he made it to a sitting position. He could see Paulson's blood running down one side of Charlie's face. Sirens sounded a few blocks away.

"We've got an ambulance coming," said Tompkins. He looked into Charlie's eyes, trying to assess his level of consciousness. "Charlie, are you okay?"

Charlie blinked and looked at him. "Yeah, I think so." His voice was raspy, and he touched his forehead gingerly and winced, then looked down in confusion at the blood on his hand.

Don pointedly ignored Tompkins and Merrick. "Can you stand up?" he asked Charlie.

Charlie nodded a little woozily, and Don lifted him under the arms, and got him to his feet, putting an arm around his chest to support him. Merrick and Tompkins rose also, their anxious gazes on Charlie. "We've got an ambulance coming," repeated Tompkins, looking at Don with consternation.

Don turned away, and began walking Charlie slowly to the curb. His voice, when he spoke to them over his shoulder, was shaking with repressed rage. "Screw you, and screw your ambulance. You've got your goddamned traitor; now lay off my brother. He's coming with me."

Don briefly contemplated taking the car, but decided on a cab. The car was across the street, and Charlie was more than a little wobbly. Not to mention the fact that Don was probably in no mental state to drive; he was so angry he could barely see straight. His fear had turned into fury; he was angry at Charlie for going along with this; angry that his brother hadn't listened to him, and above all angry with the men who had again put Charlie in a dangerous position.

Don flagged down a cab; it wasn't hard – traffic had slowed as the drivers craned their necks, trying to see what was happening. The driver looked at the blood on Charlie's face and seemed a little reluctant to take them, but got over it when he saw Don's badge; and the frightening look on his face. Don helped Charlie inside, then came around and got in back on the other side, and barked at the driver. "Huntington Memorial. Move it." The cab rocked as the driver cut sharply away from the line of traffic into the outside lane, and Charlie lurched, sliding sideways against Don, and gingerly righted himself.

Don didn't move, didn't acknowledge the contact; he stared straight ahead, his eyes still filled with anger, his jaw rigid.

Charlie stared at him anxiously. "Don," he said tentatively, his voice still hoarse, "I'm sorry, it was the only way to get to him, and it wasn't supposed to work out that way-,"

"Shut up," snapped Don, his eyes still fixed on some non-existent point through the windshield.

Charlie gaped at him as though he'd been struck, and as Don turned to look at him, he realized that his brother was still shaking from the ordeal. Just for a moment, the bruise and the blood spatter vanished, and he saw his five-year old brother, staring at him with confusion and hurt in the back seat of their parents' car, his eyes huge and dark.

The memory brought a wave of emotion, and Don's face softened, as they gazed at each other for a moment. "I'm sorry," said Don. "You just scared the hell out of me."

Charlie stared at him with an odd expression; taking in the look in Don's eyes. _It almost looks as if…,_ He broke off the thought and glanced away, his voice quiet. "Yeah, it scared the hell out of me, too."

Don watched him look down at his lap, and the memory returned - five-year old Charlie sitting with his head bowed, pants legs marked with dark splotches from his tears. Don blinked, and the vision was gone, but not the feeling that it generated.

"C'mere," Don said quietly, and putting his arm around his brother, he reached over and guided Charlie's head gently onto his shoulder.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 52

_A/N: I thought of a dozen different ways to do in Paulson, including using Edgerton. I decided though, that I really wanted Don to take him out. Somehow, out of all the options, the picture of Don as jive-walking gangsta stuck in my mind, and I ended up choosing this scene. Ian will play his own role. One more chapter; it will be a rather long one._


	53. Chapter 53

**Chapter 53**

Three days later, Charlie sat in the oversized armchair, facing Michaels, thinking back over the events of Saturday. The hospital had kept him a few hours for observation; then let him go, but not before Alan had showed up, in a panic. His father had arrived in the ER moments after they did, and been as furious over what had happened as Don had been. When he heard that Merrick and Tompkins had showed up at the hospital, Alan began to storm out of the room to confront them, but Charlie, and surprisingly, Don, had talked him out of it. Don commented wryly that he had already done enough damage to his career, and Alan had finally calmed down, going from furious to disgruntled, as relief that his sons were relatively unharmed set in. Charlie, somehow, felt guilty over the whole thing, and when Don had mentioned damage to his career, his heart had plummeted.

Alan finally, grudgingly agreed to try to remain civil when Merrick and Tompkins came in, and was somewhat mollified when they made it a point to apologize to Charlie. Don stepped out in the hallway with them at their request, and when he returned, to Charlie's relief, Don had a satisfied glint in his eye. Charlie surmised that the two powerful men had just eaten more than their fair share of crow.

He had just finished recounting the events to Michaels, who was making some notes. The doctor looked up and leaned back in his chair, and studied Charlie. "So tell me, what was going through your mind while this was happening?"

Charlie shook his head slightly. "I don't know – not much, it happened too fast. I was scared."

"Before, during, or after it happened?"

"All three."

Michaels leaned forward. "That's at least a healthy emotional response. How did you respond physically? Did you fight it, or did you let it happen?"

Charlie scowled. '_Not this again,'_ he thought. His first inclination was to close up, but as the realization of how he reacted hit him, his face turned thoughtful. He looked up at Michaels with a hint of surprise. "I fought it. The whole way – I was scared the whole time. I never felt the way that…"

"That what?"

"The way I felt at Santa Barbara, and at the river," finished Charlie, still reluctant to admit that at those moments, he had intentionally given up.

Michaels nodded approvingly. "That's good. So this time, you were fighting for your life. Why do you think that is?"

Charlie shook his head. "I have no idea." He looked down at his hands for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. "My dad thinks I put too much pressure on myself."

"And what do you think?"

Charlie looked up at the ceiling. "I feel pressure, sure, to make sure my solutions are correct, to meet deadlines…" He looked at Michaels and shrugged. "I've always hated to be wrong about anything, but when it comes to cases, the stakes are higher; people's lives are involved."

"In this assignment for the NSA, millions of lives. The weight of the world as we know it was literally on your shoulders. If that's not pressure, I don't know what is. That was an extreme case, however. You were exhibiting signs that there was a problem before this happened. Why do you hold yourself so accountable?"

Charlie looked at him incredulously. "Because when they come to me for an answer, they expect it to be right and on time – and usually, something big is at stake. If I don't deliver, they fail."

"So it's okay for them to be wrong, or to make no progress, but not for you. They're getting nowhere on a case, so they call the man with the answers, and expect him to fix it – you expect yourself that you'll fix it every time."

Charlie nodded emphatically. "Of course."

Michaels smiled slightly. "That's a little conceited, don't you think?"

Charlie scowled. "What?"

"You must have God-like pretensions, to expect of yourself that you'll always be right."

"I don't expect it," Charlie retorted angrily. "That's the problem. One of these times, I'm going to be wrong when it really counts, and someone is going to die because of it."

"Maybe even someone close to you?"

Charlie said nothing; just nodded and looked away.

Michaels paused for a moment. "Charlie, what you're dealing with is something law enforcement officers everywhere struggle with every day. You think they don't feel bad, helpless, when they can't find solutions? There are hundreds of unsolved cases out there."

Charlie looked back at him. "But they haven't been given the ability that I have. I'm supposed to be better, to have the answers…"

"Better, yes, but not perfect," said Michaels gently. "You need to cut yourself a break, Charlie. You don't always have to be right – even you have to admit the statistical probability of that is small. You _are _human. Quit beating yourself up for that."

Charlie sat silently, but Michaels saw a flicker of something, just a hint of grudging acceptance, in his eyes.

Michaels pursed his lips. "Well, there's no question we still have work to do there, but your reaction at the plaza shows progress – very encouraging progress. How does that reaction make you feel about this – topic?"

Charlie met his eyes, and took a deep breath. "Better," he said. "Better."

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don heard the phone ring, and reached for it almost absently, his eyes on a report. At Merrick's voice, he straightened, and focused.

"Don, glad I caught you. You were leaving a little early today, is that right?"

"Yeah," said Don, hoping fervently that Merrick wasn't going to ask him to cancel his plans. He'd been waiting weeks for this afternoon.

"That's fine," replied Merrick, "I just got a call from Tompkins – they picked up the last man in Paulson's group – Avilar. He was holed up in a rural parish outside of New Orleans. When they found him, he had a case on him, with a single syringe. They sent it off to Bethesda for analysis, but they're pretty sure they know what it is. I just thought you'd like to know – that's the last of them, except for Kafa and Mahir, who we believe are out of the country."

"Yeah, yeah, I did want to know – thank you," said Don. He felt a sudden wave of relief. "I can tell Charlie?"

"Yes, actually, I was hoping you would."

"Thanks for letting me know."

"No problem, agent. No problem at all." Don could almost see the wry smile on the A.D.'s face. It was followed by one of his own, as he hung up the phone.

The expression slowly faded as he thought of the afternoon ahead, and his mouth went dry. He took a swig of coffee, trying to ignore the twinge of nervousness, and went back to the report.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Mashud Kafa sat languidly in the wrought iron café chair, his gaze on the pretty model in front of him. The warm glow of a Paris sunset lit the scene, and the spring air was unusually balmy. "Where are you from, my dear?" he purred, and listened as she prattled on about life in the Alsace region. She was brainless and uneducated, but beautiful, and Kafa's lips curled in anticipation of what the night would bring. It was amazing what money could buy.

Ian Edgerton looked out of the window of the darkened hotel room, and fit the scope to his rifle. The sunset was on the other side of the building, and his side of the building was in shadow, the rooms dark unless they were lit from within. He got into position, and took a few deep breaths. The Paris air was a personification of the city itself. The spring breeze was fresh, and spoke of the beauty of the blossoming thoroughfares, but underneath was the hint of death, emanating from the city's ancient history, from the battles that had been fought there, from the catacombs under the streets. Somehow, death and beauty mingled together, in a scent that was uniquely Paris.

Ian sighted through the scope, finding his target, and took one more deep breath. As he released it, he whispered, "This is for Charlie," and then steadily pulled the trigger. He watched in satisfaction as Kafa's head jerked back, a black hole in his forehead. Death slumped over the café table, and beauty rose from it, shrieking, backing away in horror.

Edgerton stood, and began packing away his rifle. He wasn't registered at the hotel; he had broken into the room, and would be gone before the gendarmes arrived. Kafa had been ridiculously easy to find, his conceit and arrogance making him careless. Wasseen Mahir would be more difficult; he was somewhere in Iran, which would be more of a challenge to infiltrate. Ian had been there before, however, and he knew it was just a matter of time and effort before Mahir was framed by his scope. He had another month off, after all. He smiled to himself. Vacations really were satisfying. He would have to take them more often.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

"He's coming!" Amita was gazing out of Charlie's office window, her voice brimming with excitement, and Larry grinned.

Don stepped over to the window, trying to calm the fluttering in his stomach, and watched as the slight figure made his way down the walk. It was the first time in many weeks that Charlie had been back on campus, and students were stopping and greeting him, slowing his progress. Millie had never had to make an official announcement of Charlie's "death" - he had woken up and was debriefed before she had a chance to communicate it. The pretend memorial at the crematorium had been private, and none of them had known about it. However, several of the students had seen the fake obituary, and Millie had responded by pretending it was a prank, and sent out a stern message through the teachers that such a stunt was not to be tolerated in the future. As far as his students knew, Charlie had been called off suddenly on an assignment for NASA.

Don watched him until he went around the corner of the building, playing with the card in his hands, restlessly. He had never been this nervous; not even before a raid. Bradford's words were playing in his head. '_You realize; you very likely have hurt him pretty badly. You may not get the response you want. You need to be prepared to deal with that… for anyone who is not sure about the other person's intentions, it's difficult to say those three words. When you do, you put yourself completely at the mercy of the other person. As soon as those words leave your lips, the other person has the power. They can respond back in kind, or they can reject you. It's a scary thing…' _He took a deep breath as Charlie appeared in the doorway. It was time to give up control.

Charlie took in the three of them with a puzzled expression. He had expected to see Larry and Amita; they were the ones who had called him to come in and help them with a sticky set of derivations for a complex heat transfer model. Don was another story – Charlie had no idea why he would be there. "What's going on?" he asked, and as he did, he noticed the large bookcase behind his brother.

Don smiled, and Charlie tried to place the expression. Don looked – awkward, nervous, Charlie decided - which was an expression he had rarely seen, at least on his brother. Don stepped back and indicated the bookcase. "Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, or whatever," he said a bit sheepishly. "I know it's a few months late…"

Charlie stepped forward to look at it. They had put it where his old bookcase had been, but the positioning was the only resemblance. The new bookcase was two feet taller, much wider, and had a glass front. It was very ornate, and looked expensive. "Wow, it's – beautiful," said Charlie, staring at it.

"It's not the bookcase itself that's significant, Charles; it's what's in it," said Larry, smiling.

Don looked at his brother, trying to gage his reaction. "Larry helped me with a lot of it. We tracked down every book or paper either that you have written, or that someone else has written that references your work, and had the authors write something in them and sign them. The big bound volumes contain papers. It took a lot longer than I thought it would, and at the end I was holding out for just a few professors that had promised to send their books, but hadn't yet. That's why I didn't have it at Christmas, and then, well, with everything that happened…" He paused for a minute. "We started back at it a few weeks ago and finally enlisted Amita. She sweet-talked them into moving it along."

Don watched as Charlie glanced at Amita, who smiled shyly at him. "You should see what some of them wrote, Charlie," she said, "It's pretty awesome."

Charlie's eyes drifted back to the bookcase, and Don studied him anxiously. He still wasn't sure how Charlie was taking this. His brother looked bewildered. He stared at the bookcase again, and moved forward so he could see the volumes through the glass. "This is – I don't know what to say," said Charlie, gazing at the books. His brother must have put hours of work into this.

"Every national hero needs a library," said Don, smiling. "I realize it's not quite a library yet, but it's a start." He took a deep breath, and held out the card in his hand. _Time to give him control. Let go._

"Remember," Amita whispered to Larry, "Don wanted to talk to him privately after this."

Charlie turned, and if Don hadn't been suddenly so terrified, he would have laughed at the odd expression on his brother's face. Charlie looked at him searchingly for a moment, then took the card, and opened it slowly.

A folded paper fell out, and Charlie opened it. "That's confirmation of two roundtrip tickets to Calgary, in August," said Don. "I thought maybe we could take a trip together, you know, do some hiking. I have to break in that backpack you gave me." Charlie stared at the paper wordlessly.

Don's heart was pounding; Charlie looked stunned, but the longer his brother went without smiling, the more Don worried whether stunned was good, or bad. Was his brother bowled over by the gift, or by the audacity Don exhibited by giving it to him five months late? Maybe the last thing Charlie wanted to do was go on a trip with him. Maybe it was too much, too personal. Maybe it wasn't enough. Maybe he had hurt him too much…it was too late…

His heart made its way into his throat as Charlie opened the card. This was it.

As Charlie read it, he froze for a moment. He set the card quietly down a table with a shaking hand, then turned and left the room without a word.

Don stood, motionless. It was his turn to look stunned, and a silence settled on the room. Larry frowned and began to open his mouth, but before he could speak, Don spun suddenly and strode out of the door, after his brother.

Amita looked after them with chagrin, wondering what had gone wrong. The card was lying open on the table, and she drifted over to it. What she read brought a soft smile to her face. The words, in Don's bold handwriting, leapt off the card, which was otherwise blank inside.

"IN CASE YOU WERE WONDERING – I LOVE YOU – DON."

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Don went only a few doors down the hallway before he spotted his brother in an empty room. The lights were turned out, and Charlie's figure was dark against the sunlight streaming through the windows. He was leaning on a desk with one hand, and the other was lifted to his face. As Don stepped quietly through the door, he saw Charlie wipe at his eyes. "Charlie," he said quietly.

Charlie didn't turn. "I'm sorry," came his voice, cracking with suppressed tears. "I had to leave – I knew I was going to make a fool out of myself. I was just so sure I would never hear that, and when I read it…" His voice trailed off, stolen by a wave of emotion.

Don's eyes misted with tears of his own, and he smiled. He felt the knot of tension unraveling in his gut, and he moved next to Charlie and put an arm around him. "You know, you don't always have to be right," he said gently, and Charlie looked up at him sideways, his face full of emotion, dark lashes glinting with moisture in the reflected sunlight. Don continued, a little awkwardly, "I want to take a shot at this brother thing – I know I haven't always been very good at it, but I want to change that – we could hang out, do stuff, you know…"

Charlie's voice was deep and husky with emotion. "I'd like that." His eyes held Don's.

Don's voice was soft, and he looked at Charlie with a hint of sadness. "I really let you down, Buddy."

Charlie frowned and opened his mouth to protest, but Don held up a hand, and continued. "No – I did, in a lot of ways, and I know I can't fix it overnight, but I want you to know I'm committed to this. I'm sorry it took me so long to say it. I guess I thought you knew, but I've found out that sometimes you need to say what you feel out loud. I know I wrote it, but I'll say it too – I love you, Charlie – and I've come to realize that I always have."

"I love you, too, " Charlie whispered, and he leaned his head against Don's shoulder. He smiled, and made a small choking laugh through his tears. "And I've never been so glad to be wrong in my life."

Amita and Larry had come down the hallway, and they paused at the door as they caught sight of the two figures.

Larry looked distressed, and placed his fingertips on his chin as he murmured, "I'm afraid this didn't go as planned."

Amita smiled. "Actually, Larry, I think it went very well." At his puzzled look, she added, "Come on, I'll buy you a cup of coffee, and we'll talk." Larry shook his head, as if it was all too much for him to fathom, and began to trudge toward the main hallway.

Amita took one last glance at the figures silhouetted against the window, Charlie still leaning against Don. The glow that enveloped them from the afternoon sun looked like a halo, as if it was emanating from the figures themselves. Although she didn't know the complete significance of the message in the card, she felt instinctively that they had crossed a threshold, somehow. She smiled to herself, and walked quietly down the hall.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

_Two months later…_

Alan grabbed an ear of corn and began to shuck it, grinning to himself at the voices outside the door. The thump-thump of the basketball had stopped, and he could hear Charlie and Don teasing each other as they approached the back door.

"It all comes down to speed and agility." Charlie's voice was slightly breathless, and Alan could hear a note of triumph in it.

"It comes down to the fact that you're a runt, and you got lucky." Don's voice shot back good-naturedly.

"I am not a runt – you're just too big and slow, face it."

"Runt."

"Behemoth."

The screen door opened and they clumped in, both grinning, Charlie trying to duck as Don reached out a hand to ruffle his hair. Alan watched them out of the corner of his eye, his heart full.

Charlie was positively glowing, and not just with perspiration. His smile was back, the spark in his eyes was back – _Charlie_ was back. Alan could say the same about Don - or maybe not. Don was more that just "back" – he was happier, more relaxed than Alan had ever seen him, at least since he had returned to L.A. years ago. Something had happened between them, and Alan knew that it had started with Don's gift to Charlie several weeks earlier. He was smart enough to know that it was more than a bookcase and some books that had caused this metamorphosis, although he had no idea what else had transpired during the exchange. Alan was content to let that remain their secret; whatever it had been; the change in how they treated each other had been profound.

Alan wasn't sure if it was what had happened that day, or if it was the promise of a trip to Calgary with his brother, but Charlie had thrown himself into physical therapy with a passion the next day, and had started eating as if he was preparing for a famine. He had upped his exercise schedule, and as a result burned off much of what he ate, but still he had managed to put some weight back on, most of it in the form of wiry muscle. He was quite likely in better shape than he had ever been in, and Alan could see, with a smile at Amita's admiring glances, that she thought so too. The aftershocks were finally gone, and Charlie had been given a clean bill of health from the neurologists. Don, too, was looking stronger, healthier, than he had in a long time – both in mind and body.

He had joined his brother in the exercise regimen; the story was that they were preparing for their upcoming trip, but Alan suspected it was another excuse to spend time together. They were doing a lot of that these days, much of it was on their own, but to Alan's delight quite a bit of it included him, especially when it came to golf and bowling.

It hadn't all been easy, Alan had to admit. As Charlie had gotten deeper into his sessions with Michaels and started releasing the chokehold he had placed on his emotions, he experienced unexpected surges of feeling. One night, a relatively innocent comment from Don brought on a sudden outpouring of repressed feelings from Charlie – years of submerged frustration and anger bubbled to the surface and exploded in a vitriolic attack, directed at his brother. Don took it stoically, and as Charlie began to calm down, he quietly steered him outside to the koi pond. Alan sat inside, stewing for an hour and a half, as the sun set, wondering if the progress they'd made had just been derailed.

He felt a little better when Don came back in, snagged four beers from the refrigerator, and went right back outside. He felt better yet, when they both came back in, another hour and a half later, with Don's arm around Charlie's shoulders. Later, after Charlie had gone to bed, Don told Alan quietly that he'd been expecting that outburst – Bradford had told him it would probably come, and to welcome it. Bradford suspected that Charlie, as emotional as he appeared, was actually better at suppressing his deepest feelings than Don was, and had gone so far as to say that if Charlie didn't recognize them, they would have problems in the future.

The next morning, in a quiet aside over coffee, Charlie admitted to Alan that until that night, in spite of appearances, he'd still had doubts about Don's level of commitment. In the past, Charlie had said, when faced with an attack like that, Don would have lashed back, or stormed out. The fact that he did neither, and the long talk they'd had afterward, was a revelation. To Charlie, his brother's actions that night made it real – he knew then that Don was truly dedicated to making the relationship work.

There was still work ahead, but they both were committed, Alan thought, and to his great joy and relief, they really did seem to be succeeding. He gave a tug to the corn husk, and smiled to himself as they passed him.

"I still say," came Charlie's voice as he pushed through the kitchen door into the other room, "you can take any sport, and speed and agility will matter more than size and strength."

"Oh, yeah?" Don's response floated back. The door swung shut behind them. "I don't think so. What about football?"

"Still holds."

"Does not. I tell you what, let's prove it. When everyone comes over tonight, after dinner, we'll have a football game."

"You're on. I get first shower."

"No way." There was the sound of footsteps bounding up the stairs, and laughter.

The barbecue was a success. Don's team had joined them, along with Millie, Larry, and Amita. The only one that had declined the invitation was Liz, who was attending the wedding of a friend that weekend. Alan suspected that Don had been asked to go with her, but he didn't press for details when his oldest had told him he would be home for the party. Alan wasn't quite sure how that relationship was going; Don and Liz still seemed a little unsure of each other, but he kept his mouth shut. Obviously, Don had figured out how to manage his relationship with his brother, and it gave Alan hope that he would also in time, determine what he was looking for in a romantic partnership.

Charlie's relationship with Amita on the other hand, had done nothing but blossom, and Alan smiled as he watched Charlie put an arm around her and whisper in her ear. Amita smiled back and murmured something back to him, and they both laughed as they stood in the yard, waiting for the others to congregate for the football game.

Alan, Larry, and Millie had begged off the game, and they sat in lawn chairs nursing beers, and full stomachs, as Megan, David, Colby, Amita, Don and Charlie gathered to pick teams, with Don and David as captains.

Don won the coin toss and got first pick, and Charlie looked at Colby expectantly, waiting for Don to call his name. His head swiveled in surprise when he heard his own, and he walked over Don's side with a bemused expression. Don had never picked him for a team for anything; for that matter, no one had, in Charlie's childhood. He had always been the little kid, a hindrance, instead of an asset, the last pick, at least when it came to physical endeavors.

Don grinned at the expression on his face. "I had to get Mr. Speed and Agility on my side," he said, and was rewarded with a brilliant smile.

David picked Colby, accordingly, and Don's next pick was Amita.

"No you can't," objected Charlie, and the others looked at him, surprised. Charlie grinned, a little wickedly. "How am I supposed to tackle her if she's on our team?"

"Ohhh," came the chorus of voices, accompanied by laughter, and Amita blushed.

"We'll have none of that, now," said Colby grinning, waving a finger. "This is supposed to be a clean game."

Alan smiled as he listened to the laughter and banter waft across the yard in the twilight. The game barely resembled football – there were more fumbles than catches, and at times they were all so convulsed with laughter they could scarcely move. He watched as Don threw an arm around Charlie after a successful play, and his heart filled nearly to bursting as he watched them smile at each other, their affection for each other plain in their eyes. What constitutes brothers, he wondered? Real brothers, not just acquaintances, as Charlie had put it just weeks ago. There was an essence there, something that couldn't be named, more than love, more than friendship.

He thought back over the previous year, the horrible events of Los Padres, Charlie's struggle with post-traumatic stress, the terrible incidents surrounding the failed terrorist attack. As wonderful as his sons' newfound relationship was, Alan knew that he would forfeit it, give it all up in a heartbeat, if it meant that his sons would never have to go through something like that again. He had the impression that Don, out of concern for Charlie, would feel the same way, but Charlie, who had borne the worst of it, was a different story. Alan suspected that his youngest, if he knew that this relationship with his brother was waiting for him on the other side, would go through the whole year over again, and consider it more than worth it. He smiled, a bit misty eyed, as Don gave his younger brother an affectionate squeeze.

'_Ah, Margaret_,' he thought, '_if only you could see this. They've found it – they were searching for so long, and they've finally found it._' He sat back in his chair, smiling as the next play started, and laughter erupted again. And as he listened, he heard her; her laughter floating with theirs in the soft evening air.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**The End**


End file.
